Hellfire
by HarleyandDavid
Summary: In 1880 one Dr. Watson dies on foreign soil. The next thing the man knows he's wandering the planes of Heaven. After betraying God, John is cast out, employed by the devil, and protecting a sociopath of a human with a penchant for trouble. Eventual S/J.
1. The Place Faith Lies

**Title:** Hellfire

**Chapter Title:** The Place Faith Lies

**Author:** Harley

**Fandom:** Sherlock (BBC)  
><strong>Rating:<strong> M for the whole thing, only like T this chapter  
><strong>Length:<strong> 2,871 words this chapter

**Warning(s):** A lot of references to religion, homosexuality, and violence in later chapters

**Pairing/Characters:** John, Lucifer, Michael, some Angels and Fallen and people, no pairings this chapter

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock, or Sherlock Holmes, they belong to Sir Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. Nevertheless, I do own the story and the descriptions of people in the story, I don't claim however to own the names of the people I'm describing.  
><strong>AN:** Ok, as warning now: I'm not religious. So I apologize for borrowing the names of people from the Bible if you are religious. I know the characters in this aren't going to be how the Bible describes them, or how they act in the Bible. However, I am not going to change their descriptions or actions so if you are religious and offended by my use of people from the Bible either don't read or politely tell me. Despite that, if you are religious and want to give me constructive feedback or criticism I will gladly listen and use what I can. I thrive on comments and criticism, so please don't feel afraid to send me a review. So this was the prompt from D.A.V.I.D. : FallenAngel!John and Angel!Moriarty fighting over Sherlock's soul, Sherlock doesn't know until a prescribed date (I'd tell you but that just might ruin it). Last warning for this fic. I will deviate from the BBC Sherlock plot and story, I'm staying as close to Cannon as possible, but it's kind of hard when you've completely changed the nature of two characters. First time posting Sherlock fics, so I hope I don't disappoint. Anyway, enjoy the fic, and here is chapter one.

* * *

><p>The first time John H. Watson died was sometime after 1880, he remembers because he'd been wounded rather severely during the Battle of Maiwand. They almost discharged him then. But he refused, they needed him there, in the war, not back on her Majesties doorstep, he was no use there. No bodies to mend, no sickness to cure. No, they needed him there, on the lines.<p>

He doesn't remember the particular day, or time. Not even the month really. He does remember lying in a hospital bed somewhere in India, his fellow struck comrades lying about in the hot tent with him. Enteric fever, he remembers thinking. They'll send him back for sure this time. And he can't help but feel the pang of loss at the idea of being invalidated by some blasted illness. He closes his eyes to the sting of frustration, and gives into the exhaustion.

He doesn't wake up.

That's not entirely true though. He does wake up, but he just doesn't wake up alive.

The air around him is frothy and almost glows, bright and warm and pleasant. He feels light and calm, content with his position despite all the questions that crop up. They blow out his mind like clouds or sunlight and he finds himself walking. His feet don't touch anything, but he knows his moving legs are taking him somewhere. The air shifts around him, embraces him in cool sweet touches as he draws closer to wherever it is he's headed. As he walks people materialize into existence around him, shrouded in light and nothing and despite it all their bare bodies are obscured by the mirage following them.

A glint of the sun before them has him turning his attention back to his, to their, destination. It isn't a shining gold gate, like they describe in books or stories. It's a pulsing warm light that reaches past their physical bodies and wraps around their minds and very souls, pulling them enticingly forward. They don't ever actually reach the point on the horizon that feels as if it is getting bigger and brighter and hotter and infinitely more brilliant then anything they've ever seen. But the light catches hold of their mind and holds onto them and there is a collective sigh as they are all joined with this… entity and with each other and millions and millions of others hidden away in what John can only describe as clouds of existence.

This, he thinks to himself, must be heaven.

-v-v-

His memories of Heaven are foggy and are seen through a distorted filter that never gives him a clear picture and hurts his nonphysical head trying to remember. What he does remember is the fall. There is a pulsing energy in his grasp, a bright burning light warm and happy. But he has done something very wrong, something he wasn't supposed to. Michael stands before him, a ring of archangels and angels circling him from all sides. A golden lance was in Michael's grip and his fierce expression set as if in stone. The light in John's palm bursts forth, exploding in his fingers covering his body and burning him alive. Through the haze of pain and fire the lance pierces his shoulder, ripping through his soul and he's screaming and through the din of pure agony and sorrow and _dear lord, I don't want to die again_ he heard Michael whisper to him.

"You are banished from this Holy Kingdom, John Watson. May your soul burn for your treachery." And he was falling then. And burning, god, the heat and the flames were too strong. He was screaming but the wind whipped it from his throat forcing the pain inward with no release. He felt his wings catch, as he entered the atmosphere of earth, burning away the feathers and flesh until blackened bone was all that was left and he couldn't catch any wind without the whole structure. And he was falling, and falling, and falling, and burning.

-v-v-

What he thought was death a second time, many called the Falling, rather obvious name, but it was what it was. Others called it a second death, just as John had. Lucifer called it a rebirth.

"Poor poor thing. Poor poor Angel John. You were such a good Angel, weren't you? Just couldn't stand to let someone die. So they ripped out your feathers. It's alright. I don't mind what you did at all, it was very noble. All who enter my domain are welcome." A soothing deep crackling of fire reverberated in John's mind. Upon opening his eyes his blurred vision caught sight of something that was stroking a hand through his ash dyed hair, and scorch marked flesh while John rested in its lap. John had to blink several times, as its body had the effect of a movie reel skipping, flickering in and out of proper clarification. Its structure changing shape and appearance as if it couldn't settle on one. For a moment the being looked like a large snake like creature, with dark red slitted eyes. The next a young girl with flowers in her pleated blonde hair, the next an old man, withered and bent with time.

It decided to rest on a dark massed figure, fissures running through its skin, separating with every unnecessary breath it took to release sparks of embers and a view of bubbling fire under the black cracked flesh of its body, which turned the blackened flesh around it red in the half-light of low burning fire pits. Where eyes should be were smooth sparkling black unblinking surfaces. They caught the light like obsidian and reflected in a manner close enough to eyes you could convince yourself that they were, the shine giving the impression of which direction it was looking. When it opened its mouth to speak there were no teeth they melted with ever flick of his long burning forked tongue, licking at cracked lips, sealing the fissures to make it easier to speak. Its mouth was a dim blue color inside, hot and bright burning every time it sucked down what John assumed was oxygen.

This, he realized rather quickly, was The Devil.

-v-v-

John didn't get much time in hell, not as much as he had in heaven, but it's not like he really remembers anything of his time there. Other fallen said it was universal, most of them didn't bother trying, so when he'd shrugged and said he rather liked it down here anyhow, they'd smiled mischievously at him and continued their card game, using feathers for chips. But life was relatively peaceful, unlike what he could remember of his angelic existence, it was like a giant community down below. Everyone got along in this strange way, like a family almost. A very weird, doomed for eternity family. But none the less family. He spent most his time with the other fallen. Comrades in familiarity, he supposed, rather than living arrangements. There were others like him, that hadn't really done anything wrong, had just refused to do their angelic duty. And others who had purposefully gone against God's wishes. And then there were the few that had gone around murdering people for the fun of it, until ending their spree with killing a couple other angels. "Some of Michael's favorite little boys and girls," he'd winked at John while retelling the tale, and despite the horror John couldn't help but smile and come back again the next day to hear more stories of what the others remembered.

Then there were the Unholy, the ones who in living had killed children, and murdered families, and ruined lives. Surprisingly, they were rather friendly too. They pat John on the back, avoiding his mutilated wings, told him that a good soul like him didn't deserve to be down here. He was often a little morose though, a little jealous, that they had wings that worked, large leathery beautiful things. They differed depending on the power of the person, and their horns jutted at different parts of their heads curling in different ways, making everyone unique. And like many fallen, it made John subconsciously ashamed of his rattling useless wings and wish to hide them behind black cloth, and capes.

In the deeper older parts of hell, where it was quieter and fewer beings meandered about, trying to find something, anything, to hold their interest, there were others that hid in the crags and the shadows. Very few wandered that far, but John was curious and bored and the other Fallen were lazing about today and John had never been able to sit still for long. Down here, where the fires burned hottest and strongest and even the Unholy avoided, lived The Old Ones. The ones that had once been fallen like himself, the ones that had fallen into hell with Lucifer. They were taller than the other residents, their horns large and menacing jutting and curling, some had a few rows, one had a crown of them circling his head. Large bony wings jut from their backs, some had more than one pair, some had grown black shadow like _things_ that when they flapped blew out the flames around them. When John had wandered into their domain a few stepped out from their holes. Others who had wandered this far called their power oppressing, the presences of such awe inspiring creatures making the others flee and never come back.

But being surrounded by them, John didn't feel any of that. In fact he felt welcomed and an appreciation for his arrival. Some sat down, to be closer to his less than average height, without speaking John clambered up on a jagged rock so they wouldn't have to bend so far to be at eye level. One reached behind John, moving the cloth that hid his shameful wings and without moving his lips told him he shouldn't be ashamed of them. From then on John returned a couple days, hours, weeks, years, time was an abstract here, but he would return and sit with The Old Ones, telling them about his time on earth, and of what he could remember of heaven. They found his stories fascinating, having long since avoided the surface world, being unable to blend in with the humans of the world above. In return they told him stories of old, in deep rumbling thunder that echoed in the small corner of hell they dwelled in without once moving their lips. They told him of the heaven they had known, back when God would grace the angel's with the ability to see him rather than "hiding like the coward he is." They told of the wars, and the fall and how much more it burned and they showed John what the underworld had taught them through the millennia of waiting. Hellfire was something that Unholy only dreamed about, and Fallen were too afraid to think on. It was a mystical ancient thing, having existed far before they had that could only be mastered by those granted the privilege by the land around them. In general, The Old Ones or Lucifer himself were the only ones to use it.

Lucifer was another strange one, an odd fixture in all their afterlives. He would wander among them, play cards with the Fallen, cause natural disasters on earth with the Unholy, sit in the crags with his brothers The Old Ones. He joined John for one of his story sessions with them, listening to John tell the story of his fall, and why God had banished him. When he spoke Michael's name, the others roared and snarled. Lucifer glowed a burning hot white flame in his rage and stood, recanting his battle with his brother Michael. It was spectacular display of power, control, and grace and John was never to forget it. Blue and orange Hellfire swirled in Lucifer's palms, changing into the shapes of Michael and their leader, flinging them into the air to reenact the battle as he continued the prose in a hiss of steam.

But other than that one time, Lucifer was calm, a little strange and overbearing, but he was good to all his "children and siblings" as he called all of them. Accepted everyone as he had first told John. It was thousands of years later, but only five human ones, of John being in this peaceful existence that Lucifer slithered up to his side.

"John! Good proper, John!" He'd said looping a cracked arm over John's burned shoulders, careful to avoid the blackened charred bones of John's wings. "I have an errand for you, one you'll like. It won't be too hard, not for you. Doctor John, Mr. Watson, are going to keep someone safe for me. Keep his soul intact. We need him alive. The Angel's aren't too happy about that though and want him dead, tutut, don't ask questions, no time. You have to save him, protect him, keep him from their dirty… pure… glowy touches. If anyone can do it, it's you John Watson!" His face contorted into a smirk, or the closest thing living lava could form of a similar nature. It cracked and popped at the edges, like fire embers in a pit. Didn't make it easier for John to catch exactly what the man, demon, Lucifer, was saying but he knew he was being led somewhere sacred as he passed the corner of hell The Old Ones slept in. By the lack of entities and the hushed silence that had fallen amongst the crags and pillars of hellstone it had to be somewhere Lucifer normally didn't take others.

They came to a great hanging ledge, out over a deep canyon that stretched for miles and dropped into nothing. A bright dot could be seen over the nothing somewhere in the distance, somewhere in the top of Hell.

"That's where I fell, you see, that? That's where I fell through the earth, cracked through into my own domain. But enough about me, no more dawdling, stop side tracking me." He hissed at himself, and at John, as if both were irritating and doing it on purpose, not that it made sense either way. Which was a strange habit, but those that lived with him got used to it. "I'm sending you through it. Only strong ones and Fallen can, but you're strong, strong enough to disobey god, strong enough to get through. Once through everything will fall into place for you, you'll meet up, you'll find him. It may take a bit though, I'm not sure when I'm dropping you." He was rambling again, and John just nodded numbly unsure exactly what he was to do. Metal tags were dropped rather suddenly around his neck and a pain scorched through his body as his bony wings cracked and broke and folded in under his skin. It hurt, like when he'd fallen, the burning of his feathers and flesh from the long limbs. John's legs wobbled, Lucifer steadied him against his chest, a sizzling hand running down his shoulder blades where the bones had disappeared, sealing the skin together and leaving scars as the only proof that there had been anything there to begin with. Another of those crackling smirks spread across Lucifer's face.

"Dear John. Keep him safe and protected. It's the only way to end this. To end all this." His voice trailed off. As his empty face turned out towards the canyon. "A gift, oh yes, a gift would be a lovely thing to give." A twist of his free hand and in a blaze of black flame a shining gold apple appeared in his grasp. His voice gained a snake like tint to it as he passed the fruit over to John's waiting hands. "Eat thisss." Glancing down at the small golden orb in his hands, John felt uneasy, or as close to it as he could get. He figured dying twice was the limit and there really was no way he could die a third time. His jaw tingled, and his teeth ached with the motion he hadn't used in so many years. And when he swallowed a distant thump jolted against his ribs. He ignored it, taking a second, and a third bite, and finishing it, core and all, by the fourth. The thump grew louder and stronger, harder and faster as his brain began firing signals and showing him glimpses and images and colors. He had to clutch at the skin over his chest to realize that his heart was beating, and his brain was pouring buckets full of information into his mind. He didn't see it coming, and nor did Lucifer give him warning. Except the whispered "and for protection…" before a fiery hand rested over his now beating heart and he felt a swell of heat and fire in his veins he'd never known and suddenly he was burning and blazing and it hurt and felt like pure bliss all at once.

"Hellfire," Lucifer cackled, "feels good, don't it?" And John was falling, staring up at Lucifer's fading face over the side of the ridge as John was falling and falling and falling.


	2. Hallowed Eyes of Yesterday

**Chapter Title:** Hallowed Eyes of Yesterday  
><strong>Chapter Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Chapter Length:<strong> About 4,000

**Warning(s):** A lot of references to religion in this chapter

**Pairing/Characters:** John, Lucifer, Sherlock, Moriarty, side characters, no pairing this chapter.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock, or Sherlock Holmes, they belong to Sir Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. Nevertheless, I do own the story and the descriptions of people in the story, I don't claim however to own the names of the people I'm describing.  
><strong>AN:** Originally I was gonna wait before posting this fic, I wanted to rework this chapter, get some more story into it. Problem is I felt bad that I wasn't getting this fic done and up quick enough. D.A.V.I.D. prompted the fic, but there was a prompt on the kinkmeme that was very similar to my original prompt so I started posting there only to realize how frustrating the character limit is in the comments.

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><p>He came to with dreams of fire and military uniforms and burning and bullets and sand and the sweet taste of apple on his tongue. There were suddenly memories there, overlapping the ones that he'd created years and years ago, over a hundred years ago he realized. He had memories of a mother and father, and a sister he never had, and being in a war that he never was (his had been completely different). There was a throbbing in his shoulder from the scar that had formed from where a glowing lance had struck, a throb in his leg from a wound from a long gone war, long since faded feeling new, and an ache in his chest where his heart was still pumping blood.<p>

He felt a pain he hadn't felt in a long long time, the pain of living. He wept with the knowledge of it, and the reality of it. He was alive again, a different man, a different time, a different future, but _alive_.

-v-v-

A month passed, and the novelty faded, and he fell so comfortably into his new memories and old skin that he almost could believe he had been dreaming, and these nightmares of gunfire and death were real. Really his to remember, and really his to struggle against. But he wasn't and there were some things harder to get used to now that he was relatively human again. Death had its perks, the main one being you didn't sleep so there were no dreams. No nightmares to wake you, no limbs dragging, bone tired at the end of a long day of not sleeping. The second was just as frustrating as sleep, if not more so. Time had a construct in the living plain, it was a constraint that held back his body and made life a _daily_ thing, rather than an eternal thing. Another one that John found rather quickly was the best and worse: you didn't have a heartbeat. Being alive, it drummed against his ribcage and actually hurt every time it contracted its muscles. He knew it was nothing serious, it was just a long dead heart back to life. When there is nothing moving in your body and suddenly it all starts up again, it feels unusual and is going to hurt. A lot. And most nearly constantly.

-v-v-

But John persevered through it. Lucifer had said everything would fall into place for him and he would meet whoever it was he was supposed to protect, so John kept going about human life, stumbling blindly through his new (old) existence all the while searching and waiting for this person he was supposed to protect.

-v-v-

It arose in an unlikely fashion. An… old friend of Watson's new memories. Stamford, he hadn't recognized him at first because he hadn't run into anyone from his fabricated memories yet. It wasn't until a name was placed with the face that greeted him that his mind provided recollections to help him recognize the man. There was a moment where he wondered if this was who he was supposed to protect but a small voice whispered in his ear that this man wasn't him and so he sat and conversed with him as was the polite thing to do.

-v-v-

Upon entering the research lab in St. Bart's, another new memory of John's, he spotted a man, caught the slight glance in his direction. A spark of recognition lit in John's mind. Pale eyes peeking from the cover of dark curls. He couldn't forget those eyes. But it took a moment of quick mental flipping through a photo album of all the new memories to realize it wasn't of his fabricated life he recognized this man. Instead he flicked through his life before, before the fall. He couldn't remember much, could barely remember anything of heaven. But he sure as hell was never going to forget those eyes, or that sharp face, or what had brought them to this position. All of it being John. John and his stubbornness and good morals, and Lucifer's mild meddling he is sure.

And Sherlock Holmes with his stupidity, and here John Watson was starting an adventure with him.

-v-v-

He did a decent job, faking human he thinks. Unlike most demons sent up here, John had been human once, he understood the complexities and the simplicities of it. Most demons gave themselves up rather quickly and had to resort to eating those who'd noticed. Fortunately it was only one or two people, and never in crowds. Otherwise Lucifer's chores would never get done, and how would he go on without a good cup of tea at his disposal. Fallen rarely returned to anywhere close to before. They couldn't take the reminders of being alive, some couldn't take the reminders of having once been an angel. John on the other hand, loved it. He loved being alive, everything was new and exciting and familiar and comforting all at the same time. His memories created for him made everything easy and kept him from being overwhelmed. So the excitement of new and alive was there.

But he couldn't give himself away, he had to act like he belonged. Relatively easy, and with the invisible pain in his leg, a limp made him seem human enough, so John had kept up with the limp, despite knowing it wasn't really there. Well, that is, until Sherlock decided to prove to him it was "psycho sematic." Which wasn't entirely untrue seeing as John had been playing it, had been letting it fester there. And he felt more clever than Holmes if only for a little bit, seeing as he was able to convince him that it was unintentional.

There was something about having adventures with Sherlock that made him forget what he was doing here. It wasn't like he meant to, it just happened, the adrenaline in his living veins, and the excitement of it all added to the feeling of living.

And then he'd get himself in trouble. Like with the cabbie.

John screamed when he sensed Sherlock in danger, rushed as fast as he could with his human constrictions. And he had chosen the wrong building. He felt the Hellfire building in his lungs coming up his throat ready to burn his skin away and unleash the fires of Lucifer's anger. But he couldn't reveal himself so early in the job, but he couldn't let Sherlock die.

So he pulled the trigger.

The same would happen later with the soft spoken Chinese woman, pointing her gun at his forehead. He was fine with the idea of getting shot until Sarah was endangered, and then Sherlock trying to be the hero. He wanted to strangle Sherlock for risking his life for them (for John), especially when he could have killed the three captors and find some way to keep Sarah from speaking.

But it all worked out, and in a way he guesses its better he doesn't do too much with Sherlock watching him so closely.

-v-v-

There were things though, constant reminders of what John was. The hard part was hiding his lack of living while sharing a flat. At night he slept on his stomach, the pressure on the bones in his back too painful to sleep on his back or side. And his skin took on an ashy black look, glowing of embers and fire, reheating his body every night. He only knew any of this, for the few times Sherlock would cause a ruckus waking him half through his sleep cycle and his skin still glowed. Food was another one, he didn't really need it. The apple having given him a heartbeat and breath but filling the hungry empty pit his stomach had been when he'd fallen. He had some ideas about what the apple had been, but he had no way of asking Lucifer. Don't get him wrong, he still ate. In fact he ate ravenously, as if he hadn't eaten in forever. Which he hadn't. So, every meal he had to slow himself so he could properly chew and eat, every flavor was to be savored and enjoyed.

There were also the strange things, though, that couldn't be explained away. Like how he'd get close to a flame and his fingers would glow red, with what felt like a living flame crawling under his skin. Occasionally, when a fire was happily cracking in the fireplace he swore he saw a face looking up at him from the embers, laughing and sending sparks and ash further into the chimney.

There was also the one time someone flicked open a lighter and the flame slanted, as if the wind were trying to blow it out. He glanced at the poor sod trying to light up, fingers trembling. The lighter sparked and practically exploded as the flame desperately tried to reach him. John made up for it by bandaging the man's blistering fingers. He was shaking and staring at John wide eyed, chanting how he was never smoking again.

Well, it seemed ironic that he was doing more good as a Fallen Angel then he ever had as a servant of God.

-v-v-

And then there was the one he isn't even sure he'd ever be able explain to anyone. Lucifer had this habit, he didn't like roaming on Earth, it caused death and madness in large quantities of people. So he never went to Earth in his own skin. But he liked to find clever ways to roam without causing trouble. Well, without causing too much trouble.

Sherlock had disappeared on a mystery without telling John, again. He did that a lot, which frustrated the hell out of him. Mostly because his job was to watch over the human, and keep the Angels at bay, but of course the idiot couldn't know about this and had to run off without him. Lucifer had never specified he couldn't know, but it was a pretty easy deduction, Sherlock knowing would either reveal himself to the Angels, or make him think John was insane. Either way, it was too much of a risk.

He was sitting at his chair, sipping away at his tea, reading the paper. The rustle of material at the edge of his awareness had him lowering the paper. The flat was still empty, Mrs. Hudson was somewhere downstairs puttering about starting dinner he assumed from the delicious scents roaming up the stairs. The sound again. He shifted his attention, staring at the skull, it rattled on the mantle before falling from its place. John's hand shot out to catch it, only to be surrounded by ash. Arm stretched out, he watched on in surprise as the ash and soot squirmed and floated the skull into the air. The remains of a dead fire formed a writhing semblance of a human body, the skull resting on a spiny neck like jut from what was assumed to be shoulders.

Ash filled the empty sockets, hardening to dark shining stones and casting a glance around the flat.

"John! Good ol' reliable John! Nice place, got yourself a catch didn't you." Lucifer's cracking voice echoing through teeth. He canted his body at an odd angle, the flexibility of his temporary body making the pose that much more skewed. It stepped away from John, tracking dirt and particles across the rug. Mrs. Hudson was going to have a fit. Pulling his hand from where it had been shaking in the open air, John reached for the cup he had left on the arm of the chair. Peering into it in dejection, soggy ash floated on the surface, the milk having coagulated in the presence of the Devil himself.

John made a face at him, "Did you have to ruin the tea?" Standing to put the ruined cup in the sink, he'd leave it for Sherlock. He'd probably want to run tests on it, he was strange like that. "Oi, don't do that, you're getting ash everywhere, how can I explain this to Sherlock?" Lucifer was holding one of the sterile beakers that had been set on the table next to Sherlock's lab equipment. There was no expression with a skull, but if Lucifer had his real body, John is sure he'd be attempting puppy eyes with his empty spaces. When John didn't back down he sighed like a pouting child and placed the beaker where he'd found it, ash layering the table under his stretched arm.

"Just thought I'd check up on you sweety. Poor John, dear John. Where is the boy, anyway?" The voice had a metallic sound to it, like metal cogs grinding together only to emit a lilting female voice instead of his normal burning vocals. He hung his arms, and that term was extremely loose, over John's shoulders, twisting fingers in the air where one of John's wings should have been folded sending a cloud of ash into the air. John coughed, it wasn't really necessary he didn't breath like a normal human. It was just weird thinking where the ash had just been as of recent. "You are supposed to be watching him you know."

John rolled his eyes, unsure what to do with himself, he folded his arms when he realized he wasn't quite sure where to put them. "He isn't the easiest person to babysit, and it's not like he tells me everything. I'm just a flatmate and a colleague when it suits him."

Lucifer ran an ashy hand through John's hair and sighed looking back down at the table scattered with scientific paraphernalia.

"I see that… for shame, for shame. No matter, the Angels have been taking their time. I don't have long, I stick here too long and they'll catch on. A little bird told me our dear old Dad has sent Michael to catch up to our little friend. He's taking his time though, I don't know what he's planning but it can't be nearly as pleasant as me. So keep quiet, keep close, he's older and stronger then you are, but you, my friend, have a strong will, and the kick of my little gift should at least put you on even footing." He pulled away, his voice having fallen back to its usual crackling tone, but a serious underlying note was laced through the fire, licking at John's ears. He scratched at a piece of ember in the crook of his elbow that had pulled up into the ash. "I'll come back once I have more information, and if you need me, you know how to find me." The door downstairs opened and they could hear Mrs. Hudson greeting Sherlock. "By the way! Keep up the blog, loved that! Study in Pink, classic! Can't _wait_ to read more." Sherlock stopped at the stairs below.

"John? Do we have a client?" Came muted from up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson made some sort of mention to not seeing anyone go up, and Sherlock was distracted for a few more seconds.

"Oh, darn." Lucifer pouted, or at least John assumed he did. "It seems your partner in crime is here to spoil the fun, I should probably go before he or Michael sees, oh, don't worry about the mess, I got it." His body started shaking and John just _knew_ what he was going to do.

"_No!_" He gasped stretching out his hands. It was too late. The skull dropped into his trembling, flailing hands and the ash exploded where Lucifer had stood and settled throughout the flat, covering it in a thin dusting of grey. Upon hearing the air shift Sherlock bounded up the stairs, two at a time, and hovered in the doorway in a matter of seconds.

"What happened?" He asked more a rhetoric then wanting an answer. He moved slowly into the settling grey, trying to deduce exactly what happened, obviously coming up blank. John growled, dropping the skull on the kitchen table and wiping the powder from his face, trying to get it out of his eyes and coughing it from his throat. After a satisfactory wiping, and realizing Sherlock was a little closer now, checking on John's wellbeing, he turned upon the detective and put his fists to his hips. He figured Sherlock would find some way to logic the situation into his own brain if he simply responded with:

"I don't know, you tell me!"

-v-v-

Despite everything, John still did rather well hiding from Sherlock. But Sherlock wasn't very good with people so that could probably explain it. Mycroft, on the other hand, was better with people, and infinitely more frustrating trying to hide his secret from. He had this bad habit kidnapping John or showing his face at random moments or offsetting times. There was something in the way he watched John that worried him. He would take in John and how he looked, and more often than necessary, snuck glances at John's shoes, he'd do it when he thought John wasn't paying close enough attention. Sometimes he'd do it as blatant as possible, as if wanting John to know he suspected something in hopes of making him slip up sooner. If he were just a demon it would have worked and he is sure Mycroft would have killed him on the spot, and Sherlock wouldn't have been able to argue. But having been a fallen he acted as any human did when being overly scrutinized. He acted even more human. Unsure and unnerved by the way the Man-who-was-but-wasn't-really-THE-British-Government followed his every move, he stuttered more, or shook or once dropped something out of uncertainty.

For the most part, Mycroft danced around Watson, trying to find something, anything to prove there was something off about him. John had done well, until one day, before escaping the other Holmes' piercing gaze while interrogated about how his brother was getting on. A hand had found its place resting on one of John's shoulder blades. The feel of a warm palm seeping through his jumper into where one of his wings should have been jutting out caused his body to shudder, despite the friendly gesture of the hand. Mycroft snatched his hand back, when John's skin had risen slightly, the wing bones shifting under his skin creating the illusion that his back muscles were squirming in ways they shouldn't. He could feel Mycroft's eyes burn into his back as he fled.

But he never mentioned it to John, and if he mentioned it to Sherlock either the consulting detective found it irrelevant and didn't bother looking for the evidence, or he believed Mycroft was lying for some reason. Either way, it didn't matter. Lestrade was a tricky one, though, even with Sherlock's constant insults at how dimwitted the Yard was, Greg was exceedingly perceptive. He once flat out told John there was something off about him, that he didn't completely mind.

"I can tell you got a good heart in you, and you're good for Sherlock. So I hope I'm not wrong about you." He never mentioned anything like suspicion before or after this comment. In fact, it was easily taken and passed as Lestrade worrying about Sherlock's wellbeing as a person and John's strength of heart rather than any suspicion of John being anything but human. They actually became regulars at a bar, the two joined for drinks every week or so, to unwind and relax. On Lestrade's part mostly, John did it because it was nice feeling like he had a friend who didn't care what he was, even if Lestrade didn't even suspect.

So, really John didn't have to worry about Sherlock. And Mycroft kept his lips sealed. And Lestrade wasn't even really aware. In fact it amused John when Donovan tried to warn him away, if they only knew. Out of everyone, it wasn't Mycroft, or Lestrade, or Sherlock, or even Mrs. Hudson he was worried about, or felt fearful for his secret when he was around them. No, it was sweet dear Molly that had him reeling.

She was kind and caring and just the one time, one time Sherlock left the morgue quicker than a bat out of hell, John just about ready to follow him out.

"So you aren't here to hurt him, John?" He almost ran into the door. Glancing back at her she watched him in a way that gave no indication which answer would be correct.

"What are you talking about? I'd never hurt him." His brows knitted, Sherlock was impossible to hurt emotionally, and physically he is sure Sherlock was a skilled fighter and, even with of the soldier in John, could overpower him if he wanted or needed. She shook her head, still with barely an expression on her face.

"I'm not talking about your military career. I…" And the way she glanced at John's shoulders, as if she could see the wings, or the scorch marks on his skin. It made his insides curl in on themselves, was he that obvious? Was she an Angel? Or a fellow resident of hell?

"No… I'm here to protect him." She looked into his eyes, searched for a long while, and in the distance the two of them could hear John receive a text from Sherlock.

She nodded her head then, in understanding. "If you, well, if you need help. With anything, you know, I'll do what I can." If heaven decides to kick Molly out for offering a follower of Lucifer help, John decided he'd gladly wage war single handedly on heaven and destroy it if he must. Molly was too kind a soul to banish to the underworld for something like that. He smiled to her and vowed to keep an eye on her as well before chasing after Sherlock's wake.

After that John found life fell rather comfortably around him. Mycroft didn't bother him so much anymore. Lestrade kept having drinks with him. Molly would give him a secret little smile when no one was looking and mouth "hold in there." And he did, he held on tight and secure and kept to his duties as Sherlock's ever vigilant guardian, friend, and companion.

Regardless of all attempts, though, life was intense and interesting and never too boring. Cases always brightened Sherlock's day, he would grab up his things and was less frequent to forgetting John. But occasionally time away from the crazed man was a good thing. He found he was much easier around women then he had in his previous life. They smiled when he smiled, and blushed at his compliments, would go to dinner with him when he asked. But he never took it further than that, he couldn't let human desires distract him more than they already were.

Then Moriarty popped into their lives, and Sherlock was off like a rocket, blazing through cases and enjoying himself more then was healthy. John brooded temporarily that a human could have killed Sherlock while he was busy being angry with him. Imagine, Sherlock killed by some human device that leveled buildings and John could have easily stopped it.

It did frustrate him a bit, working with Sherlock. He cared more about the cases then the people, and despite no longer being an Angel, there were personality traits that were hard to shake. So they kept going to and fro across London, running and fighting and moving their way over the whole of every back alley and hidden crevice of the city. And suddenly they had blazed through every case this Moriarty set up for Sherlock, placing the game pieces up and waiting for Sherlock to fall into a trap. John just knew it _had_ to be a trap. After the painting was sorted, Moriarty dropped into obscurity, and they dealt with Mycroft's small case, and John let himself relax now that Sherlock wasn't in so much danger anymore.


	3. The Grave Which You Fell

**Chapter Title:** The Grave Which You Fell  
><strong>Chapter Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Chapter Length:<strong> 3,844 (or something)

**Warning(s):** A lot of references to religion in this chapter, some violence, Lucifer being Lucifer, Moriarty being well… Moriarty, and a minor character's death

**Pairing/Characters:** John, Lucifer, Sherlock, Moriarty, side characters, no pairing this chapter.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock, or Sherlock Holmes, they belong to Sir Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. Nevertheless, I do own the story and the descriptions of people in the story, I don't claim however to own the names of the people I'm describing.  
><strong>AN:** Chapter three, wooh, I want to apologize to the kinkmeme for not having more of this story right away. I don't know how many people have or are following it on the kinkmeme or how many of you are going to read it here on. So I hope anyone who does read this likes it let me know. Also, I wish when I put more then one symbol after another in the ff doc thing here that it would show all of them, like how when I do line breaks on my comp I have five hyphens, a v, another five hyphens, another v, and end with five hyphens. Instead it only shows -v-v- I mean, is it so hard to show more then one character connected with a twin or whatever? Sheesh.

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><p>He guesses it was his fault then, really. He'd let his guard down temporarily. Thinking this Moriarty character that was out for Sherlock, dropped interest in the detective, or was pouting at how quick and clever Sherlock was. And Sherlock was pouting at how quick the cases were gone. Even though he was sure it couldn't be over, and that this was all a game.<p>

Instead Moriarty was biding his time before John left the flat, snatching him up off the sidewalk and stuffing him in the trunk, hands tied harsh behind his back. The drive wasn't too long, just oddly frightening. Which was saying a lot seeing as John was a fallen, he wasn't human, what could he possibly have to fear? He was dragged from the trunk by his bound hands, barely got his feet under him before the shadowed figure was pulling him inside a building. He could smell the chlorine and water even from the room they threw him in. A tall shadowed figure was strapping him into the vest, no easy task when he was squirming as he was. That's when Moriarty morphed from the shadows, standing in the moth littered light and smiled a wide crooked smile. He was an average, normal looking human. John would have laughed, such a tiny _man_ was causing so much pain? John would have ended the help of the tags, John's presence and his wings were hidden and he looked just as much a human as he acted. And no one would have been able to stop him, would have thought it an accident with the way he'd burn the body and send the bastard to Lucifer.

But in the dim light, a pulsing glow surrounded Moriarty. He could almost imagine the soft feathery gold wings arching from his shoulders, and the glint of holy armor he wore under his tailored suit. Michael. He was sure. Michael, The Lord's most trusted archangel and the one that had banished John from the kingdom of God. If John just… stepped forward and stabbed him here and now, Moriarty- Michael, whoever he was- would be dead and Sherlock wouldn't have to watch John walk out with enough rigged explosives to blow chunks of his body over a couple block radius. He could do it. He had the strength born from determination of any younger archangel he is sure, and with the help of the hellfire Lucifer had given him, it couldn't be too hard, right? But he was shaking, shaking more violently then he ever had, he felt the overwhelming weight of an Archangel's power pressing down around his ears and wrapping around his stomach. It made his body want to tear it's skin apart, crawl out of his dark hiding hole and scream.

He wondered how many of his fellow errand goers had been outed, had been drawn from their disguises. The purity of his soul was impossible to contain, his power so strong that even a normal human would be able to feel it. Just the run off was enough to make John feel physically in pain being in the presence of it. He couldn't bring himself to move, even as Moriarty was stepping forward to fix an earpiece to John's ear, whispering softly about how if John spoke even one letter out of turn it wouldn't be John getting hurt. When the Angel touched his ear, his other hand brushing through John's short hair he half expected his body to burst into flames, or something equally as volatile. But only a vicious shiver, and another wave of nausea ran through his whole body.

He had a moment to feel vaguely insulted and completely relieved that Moriarty didn't recognize him. If he had, the Archangel would have ripped the unholy soul from John's body and tore it into small pieces and rained them down on Sherlock before turning him mad with the unsolvable mystery of John's lifeless, unmarred body. Moriarty spent the rest of his time whispering in John's earpiece about how he was going to make Sherlock bleed if John acted up, would have tortured and humiliated John if he had the time. And every shiver in his bones made Moriarty laugh and think him a pathetic easily manipulated human. Which was fine for John, right now he needed to get his nerves gathered, and he really couldn't correct Moriarty's assumption at the moment. But, oh Sherlock was here, and it was time for a show.

-v-v-

The expression of complete confusion and pain and betrayal that flitted over Sherlock's normally neutral face made John want to deviate, and tell him it wasn't what he thought. But Moriarty was going to do that for him anyway, so he let his mouth move and voice create the words he was told without really thinking too hard on what was being said.

He kept his vision locked on Sherlock, pleading with his eyes for him to run. It would be so much easier to fight Michael without having to worry about someone getting caught in the crossfire. And that way if John had failed Lucifer could just send someone stronger in his leave to protect Sherlock. He'd come to care for him more then he should have, Sherlock Holmes was a force of nature, a hurricane of intelligence and there was no way John had stood a chance against him. He was just too brilliant for John not to fall for. When Moriarty revealed himself, stepped from the shadows, the role of a psychopath human fit so easily on his shoulders it frightened John that he had ever been in the same realm as him. He drew closer, and closer, and suddenly he was right on top of them and John saw red as he got close enough to brush fingers with Sherlock. This was going to be his moment, this was going to be where Moriarty killed Sherlock, and he couldn't let it happen.

He forced down the feeling like his insides were going to crawl out of his body at the contact of his chest so close to Michael's wings, but Moriarty just laughed it off, and the red dot moved to Sherlock's forehead, dancing below dark curls. And he had to fall back, while the "adults" talked it out, and Jim basically told Sherlock he wouldn't kill him today and he wandered right back out of their lives. John breathed a sigh of relief the moment the door closed, and another deeper one when the explosives were away from Sherlock as far as they could be tossed.

But he felt the Angel still close by, and lights were dancing on their bodies once more and Moriarty was back.

"You can't be allowed to continue, you just can't." Is what Sherlock heard.

"The Lord decreed your death, and I shall do the Lord's will." Is what John knew he meant.

And then Sherlock fired. John expected to hear a blaze of shots as Moriarty laughed and the two of them fell. Instead, the man stumbled, looking at the small hole in his suit.

"I just had this made, you know." He scoffed, mildly displeased as he popped each button on his jacket, and the small tiny ones on his shirt and the squashed slug dropped to pitter patter across the cement of the floor.

Normally, the shocked look of utter bewilderment stuck on Sherlock's face would have John taking pictures and sending them to Lestrade and the boys. And maybe to Mycroft, he'd probably look at it after a bad day to lift his mood.

But John was about ready to run for his life. This was different from being strapped to semtex. Moriarty shucked off his jacket, slowly pulling the tie from his neck and dropping it to the floor, silver chest plate glinting under his white shirt. White fabric fell away and wings erupted from his back flapping once as his power seeped from the cracks in his containment. A soft pulsing light seemed to surround his head in something similar to artist's long dead renditions of a halo. Sherlock looked as if his brains were going to start pouring out his ears, whether from the weight of power or from his inability to rationalize what he was seeing. A man had stumbled at the shot, and an angel stood in his place, Moriarty was gone now, only Michael remained.

"Surprise!" He spread his arms wide, wings spread in full glory mimicking the movement of his arms. His grin was wide and boyish as he straightened his right hand and drew a long line in the air in front of him, gold light erupting from where his fingertips separated the fabric of space to pull the Lance from its Holy Alter in Heaven. It nestled into his hand like a favorite pencil, or a well-used gun. When he moved his arms again, the Golden Lance in his right hand became more of an extension of his body then a weapon granted to him. "It is a true honor to meet you, Sherlock Holmes. You have been a slippery one. You may call me Michael. Or Moriarty, I like both. But it doesn't matter if you know my name or not. I, Michael, servant of the Lord, have been sent to kill you, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock was trying to assess the situation, trying to compartmentalize what was in front of him into something reasonable. The shock had fallen away, but his face grew paler and paler by the minute. "I had fun playing with you, it is so rare that a human is _so_ amusing. As a parting gift, a thank you, if you will, I will let you in on a little secret. It is not personal, you know." He leaned forward, whispers echoing off the walls just as easily as shouts, pulling off gossiping school girl rather well, if it wasn't for the wings, that is. "When a human dies, his soul is weighed in a millisecond in Purgatory before they are sent to heaven or to hell. But when an Angel kills a human, their soul is obliterated. As if they never existed." John stood then, Michael wasn't paying him any mind, and if he didn't do something soon he'd have failed. The dancing red lights were gone now, and he sensed the power of lesser angels making themselves known. Sherlock was far too pale at this point, as if he'd be sick, or if he'd just out right died at the absurdity of what was in front of him. John had to do something and soon.

He jolted when John touched a hand to his arm, but he didn't remove his eyes from Michael who had finally turned his attention to John.

"Dr. Watson, you are no longer of use to us. We do not wish to involve the innocent… but I will kill you, if I must." Steeling his nerves, John pushed Sherlock behind him turning to face Michael.

"John…" He whispered a pale shaking hand resting on his shoulder. "I won't… there is only one logical outcome-"

"Shut up Sherlock." John hissed, shrugging Sherlock's hand from his shoulder taking a step forward. He knew what he had to do, reaching for the dog tags around his neck, gripping the oddly hot metal between his chilled fingers. Michael laughed.

"You truly are loyal to a fault, John Watson. I have no need to waste strength on you." He inclined his head, an Angel landed before John, feet barely touching the ground before he drew back his arm preparing to rip the still beating heart from John's chest.

He felt the flesh of his back tearing open, and his body was burning, scorching hot brands shredding his skin. The Angel stumbled back in surprise and he could hear the shuddered breath Sherlock took in.

"You will _not_ lay a hand on him."

Really, he had hoped he would never have to reveal himself to Sherlock. You could say he'd grown rather fond of his human life with the consulting detective. But there was something about being in his own slightly scorched and charred skin, with his own shallowly hooked nails, and his own faintly scratchy voice that echoed of fires, and burning halo of fire falling about his ears. His own corrupted power settling around him like a favorite piece of clothing, keeping him safe from all Holy creatures touches. His own black bone wings, stretched out their full wingspan, large enough to rival Michael's own, boxing Sherlock in a rattling bone cage, protecting him from attack.

"A Fallen, I should have known he would send a child to do a demon's work." Michael smiled, large and too human for any angel to ever admit to.

"Did you really forget? No, I'm not actually surprised, of course you would. Who wouldn't want to forget the person that got them in trouble with the Almighty One? Did he banish you until you finished the job? For sending an angel on a mission he was sending you on specifically?" Michael's face contorted, one of smug arrogance despite John's words. He let his right arm relax, touching the golden tip of his Holy Lance to the floor creating the soft sound of bells as it rested there.

"Well, well, what a surprise. Dr. John Watson. I thought it was coincidence. The same name as the Angel banished for failing such an important job. But I see he wanted to get on my nerves. This does not change anything, one of them could kill you, a lowly fallen." The Angel didn't hesitate at the veiled command, continuing forward with his plan of attack. But he didn't get far. Hooked claw like bones, otherwise useless as wings, stabbed into the Angel's chest, his armor barely hindering the slice of the knife like skeletal structure.

"I may not be a demon, but Lucifer did not send me unarmed." The Angel struggled, tried grabbing at the bones, to pull at them, only to jerk his hands back at the slightest touch. Dark blisters formed on his fingers and he gasped and squirmed harder as the heat started building.

"_No_." Michael snarled in horror and pure anger, the Angel was screaming now, falling to his knees as a fire was lit inside him and he was burned from the inside. His feathers were curling inward, dripping off the limbs like molten metal. Unable to hold up the extra weight on his shoulders, John ripped his bony fingers from the Angel's chest and from each hole flames erupted consuming the outer shell until there was nothing left but burned particles of light.

"I suggest you retreat Michael, it's only a matter of time before you get on Lucifer's nerves enough to make him arrive himself. And we both know you didn't drive him out of heaven, he left on his own." If John wasn't a Fallen and hadn't befriended demons of all circles of hell, he'd assume Michael was one, just from the way his angelic features twisted into one that was surely causing a natural disaster and the death of millions somewhere else in the world.

"John Watson, this is the second time you have let someone live that is meant to die. The Lord will never forgive your damned soul."

"We both know that isn't true, if he were meant to die, God would have killed him a long time ago. And I'm quite content with him hating me, Lucifer has been far kinder anyway." The demonic growl that came from Michael would have impressed some of the more powerful ones, but it just made John smirk. He'd won this round. And all present knew that. It was one thing to kill humans, small insignificant humans, but it was another to get an angel killed. Michael was gone, in a flurry of light and feathers and John felt a pang in his shoulder from his old scar. The other Angel's must have left with him for he no longer felt any of their presences. All that was left to show for their battle was a jacket of human explosives and a pile of Angel remains.

-v-v-

Sherlock hadn't spoken the whole way back to the flat, and John didn't bother starting a conversation. They silently agreed to talk once they had the world shut out and two cups of tea between them. The halo of fire around his head had burned out shortly after Michael left, the Hellfire in him burning low after such a large quantity was used to take down just one of them. John dropped the tags in his pocket and tugged the large green parka on, folding his wings against his back hiding his scorch marked skin in the shadows of London's night. The cabbie didn't question the large coat, which John is grateful for, or the creak of bones as John constantly shifted, his wings protesting at being pushed in such a confining space. It was early morning by the time they found their way up the doorstep of 221B. Mrs. Hudson was softly sleeping in her room, he could feel the shift in the flat with every breath she took.

There were two other beings in the space above them, John could feel them bearing down from the living space of their own flat. He shoved Sherlock behind him, without getting so much as a disgruntled grumble from him, obviously in too much shock to try and form any. John slithered up the stairs, a feat that was impossible for human John, but despite the parka and his normally noisy wings he was far quieter and lighter on his feet then even Sherlock. His wings pressed close to the skin of his back, keeping as still as possible to keep from making any revealing sound. He reached for the flaps of the jacket, prepared to toss the article away at the slightest hint of trouble.

Slipping through the shadows, he slid in close to the open door avoiding the block of light that lay across the hard wood floor. He pressed close to the wall glancing into the room.

Mycroft was sitting with a cup of tea on his knee, fingers delicately holding the handle while his free hand softly spun his umbrella on the point. Across from him, in Sherlock's normal seat was a tall man, lean and elegant, suit perfectly tailored to his sleek frame. His eyes were blazing blue, bright and burning just as distracting as the shocking platinum colored hair that fell about his face. It was stark contrast to his demeanor, unruly and untamable, curling about his cheeks and around his head. It was the color of a powerful low burning flame and just as lively. A mischievous smile played at his lips as he sipped his tea, and John just knew that the man knew he was there.

John made a motion with his head, letting Sherlock know it was safe for him to continue, but John himself didn't move further then just outside the light the room cast into the hall. Mycroft looked up at Sherlock's entry, standing quickly, but not making any sort of move to get closer to his shell shocked brother.

"Who's that?" Ignoring his brother, his pale eyes wearily followed the slow movements of the unknown man in his chair.

"Don't worry brother, he's a friend of John's. Octavious Venour." Standing, the man dabbed at his wet lips with a kerchief, adjusted his dark grey suit coat, smoothing out his plum colored tie. He stuck a hand out to Sherlock who eyed it suspiciously and didn't take it.

"The Sixth." He corrected Mycroft, but everyone present knew the Holmes' brother had done it on purpose. When it was obvious Sherlock wasn't taking the offered hand, Octavious dropped it to his hip tipping on his toes and peeking about Sherlock's shoulder. "John, dear friend, do come in. This is your flat, you don't have to lurk." Sherlock's eyes were wide glancing between the three other men in the room. All eyes were on him for a moment, and he is sure his flashed yellow from the shadows by the startled look that flickered onto Mycroft's face.

"But he'll see." He tried to plea, it was one thing for Mycroft to have suspicions, it was another for John to prove them. Octavious clicked his tongue disapprovingly, rocking back on his heels, and for a moment John expected him to laugh like the pop of embers and hissing sulfur.

"Dear John, I think he has just as much right as Sherlock here does to know. And I figure I'm here, you're here, we can explain together and not have to repeat ourselves. And drop the coat, it looks ridiculous." He turned his nose up a little at the large parka, as if its mere existence offended Octavious. Biting his lip with slightly jagged teeth he slid free of the coat and stepped into the light of the living room. Human John had a nervous habit of wringing his hands, but with his hooked claws, he could only rub at his soot marked hands and attempt to get the impossible marks off. Octavious clapped his hands happily, Mycroft took a half step back, probably involuntarily. Sherlock, John couldn't look at him. He just stared wide eyed, pale faced, at John's wings, he almost longed to tug that stupid parka back over his shoulders. He knew they were blood stained, and the claws at the end of the finger like bones scraped against the wood. He flinched at the sound, dragging them closer to his body to keep them from ruining the rug. He leaned heavily to the right, keeping as far from Sherlock as possible, as was obviously wanted by the man.

"Go, sit on the couch." Octavious made a shooing motion with both hands. John shuffled over, while Sherlock stood staring at the tall white haired man, unsure if he wanted to sit with John or deal with this man. Octavious turned to look at Sherlock, his eyes flashing pure stony black catching reddish light that wasn't there. "Sit down, Sherlock." His words licked his teeth like fire and Sherlock was curled up on the opposite side of the couch from John before the words even finished coming from the man's lips. Octavious giddily sat back down, scooting his chair across the rug as Mycroft stared after him wondering where the respectful man he had been sharing tea with only moments before had vaporized too. He carefully moved his seat as well, perching himself on the edge of the cushion, and leaning away from the smiling man.

There was a sudden divide in the room, strained and uncomfortable. John constantly shifted, in the quiet left by Octavious' commanding voice, before turning his back against the arm rest of the couch, letting his bones droop onto the floor.

"Now that we are settled, let me reintroduce myself. I'm John's boss, Lucifer."


	4. Children of Sin and Light

**Chapter Title:** Children of Sin and Light  
><strong>Chapter Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Chapter Length:<strong> 3,084 (don't know why I buther)

**Warning(s):** A lot of references to religion in this chapter, some talk about violence, Lucifer being Lucifer, and some pain on John's part

**Pairing/Characters:** John, Lucifer/Octavious, Sherlock, Mycroft, mentions of Moriarty/Michael, no pairing this chapter.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock, or Sherlock Holmes, they belong to Sir Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. Nevertheless, I do own the story and the descriptions of people in the story, I don't claim however to own the names of the people I'm describing.  
><strong>AN:** I'll let you know, this fic has the weirdest list of inspirational music. Seriously, I asked D.A.V.I.D. for a song to listen to while I was writing about Lucifer/Octavious and she gave me a link to Teeth by Lady Gaga. So… now when I hear the song… I think of Lucifer, and his big ass fire grin. And then there is the later chapters and me listening to the ONLY good song from Moulin Rouge, El Tango de Roxanne. Don't look at me like that, it's a good song. I like it. Anyway, so those are just two of the songs I listened to while writing this fic. But yea, chapter four, finally revealing why the Denizens of Hell are protecting Sherlock, I hope it doesn't sound stupid :c

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><p>Mycroft pulled a face, the kind of face one would give that says "I don't believe you but seeing as I'm staring at a man with the remains of <em>wings<em> jutting from his back I have no choice but to listen to you." While Sherlock, looked about ready to dose up on something strong that would make all of this feel more logical. John wanted to reach for him, pat his hand in reassurance, instead he curled further into his corner of the couch as far from Sherlock as he could physically move. Octavious' body seemed to flicker, cracks running down from his eyes as he turned his attention to John, as if Lucifer's true body was trying to burn through, and a hiss emitted from somewhere in his chest.

"_John_." The fire in the hearth behind him blazed a little brighter and bigger catching John's attention. "Astaroth has missed your stories." He smiled and leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together. "Wonders when you will return with more." His head tilted slightly, white curls dripping from his head like fire. John could only think of him as being Octavious in this human form, but he met his slightly inhuman gaze still rubbing at his wrists.

"Not for a while." As if he had passed a test, Lucifer made a motion with his hand and John tossed him the metal dog tags.

"Sherlock Holmes, this is a lot to take in within such a short time, yes? I do apologize for all this, it's not really your fault, blame me if you must." He ran his fingers over the metal chain of John's tags, fusing the metal back together with liquid fire. "You see, many lifetimes ago, there was a war, none of you youngsters would know of such an ancient battle, even in the small hidden animal part of your child brains." He pointed at the temple of his human head and smiled up at Sherlock. "I fought the legions of heaven with my own faithful servants. God had made me a perfect being, infinitely wise and infinitely powerful. But he was such a flawed creature, and so imperfect and so much more arrogant and cowardly then I. It's obvious in the way he hides. The scriptures of man say I was cast out, no, I battled my way to the throne room and showed him I was stronger, I was powerful and he was playing us like children's toys and I would not let him do that to my brothers. Michael was enamored with our Lord, and would do anything that was asked of him. So, God granted him the power to wield a Golden Lance with the power to banish others from heaven. And I was banished, with my brothers we fell through the Earth and broke into our own realm." He tossed the metal chain to John, who deftly caught it and laid it out in his lap, knowing Octavious would frown on him for hiding his wings.

"This happened so many millennia ago I cannot count, there is no sense of time in Hell, no need for it, it all blends together really." He turned his attention back to Sherlock who was slowly extracting himself from the corner of the couch he'd shoved himself into. A sparkle of fire lit in Octavious' eye as he leaned forward on the chair. "A piece, just a small piece, of my soul fractured from me when he banished me. I've searched a long, long time for it. It's been hiding, in the flaws of the Earth where I couldn't sense or find it. So I call to it, and I look for it, and when it finally pulls itself from where it has crashed, low and behold, it's fused into the soul of a human, still growing in the womb. I should have taken it back, ended this petty war between myself and God, but unlike our Holy Father, I don't believe in killing without purpose. Plus, I wanted to see what kind of human would spawn from me, even if it was by accident." Sherlock seemed completely uncurled from his contemplative state as Lucifer inched his way forward. "I watched as my soul fused with the human's to create a child of brilliant human parents, I watched him grow, and find his place, he was so bright and shining and perfect, and I felt as if you really were my son." None of them were sure how or when they got so close but Lucifer reached long fingers out and barely brushed the dark curls from Sherlock's forehead causing the pale eyes to flit closed. Burning of hellfire under the skin, Octavious' fingertips skimmed against Sherlock's face as he pulled his hand away to rub some dust from his own cheek, out of the cracks that were slowly spreading to his chin.

"They think you're the Anti-Christ." Octavious whispered conspiratorially into the still air. Sherlock stared at him, blank and confused. "In all honesty, you probably are. They want to kill you, stop you from rising to power, but they can't let you die normally. If you die naturally, with my soul fused with yours you'll rise higher and stronger than Gabriel and Michael. You could rival mine and even our Lord's power. So of course, he assigned Michael to make sure you didn't live, make sure you didn't die of natural causes. And if so, that it was before your power reached its peak. John here, is my dear, dear friend, he got along so well with everyone. And of course there was that… one little deed. So compassionate, and so loyal to human kind, and to me before he even knew it. And he paid the price with his wings." His bones shuttered at that, drawing closer to his back as if that could hide them from the burning that they had already been subjected to. Sherlock turned his attention to his only real friend, boring holes into John's soul in a way that was all too similar to Lucifer's gaze he is surprised he never saw the resemblance.

"What did you do, kill someone?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed, as if they could extract the information without John having to speak.

"No." John whispered, picking at his shirt sleeve, trying to remove invisible ash. "I was an angel, on their side. I was pretty good at it too. Angel's save lives, but they also help those along who are waiting to die. I had been a doctor in my life before, so it wasn't a big change really. And I kind of liked it, felt like I was doing something good. But we had never been asked to kill someone before. So when Michael gave me the order to do so I wasn't quite sure what to do. And when it came time I just… couldn't. Something about this human told me that he needed to live, he was too important to let die. So I returned to heaven and I refused. And I was banished…" John touched a hand to his shoulder, where the lance had pierced his very existence and couldn't be washed out, even while wearing a human's life.

Mycroft and Sherlock scoffed in unison, obviously more similar then either liked to admit. Lucifer suppressed a snicker behind an odd childish pout and twirled the oddly shaped cufflinks that John were sure looked like lighters despite the dark obsidian color to them. More cracks were scattering across Octavious' face with each twist of his face.

"Who was so important you'd get yourself thrown out of heaven for?" Sherlock lounged back onto the couch cushions, giving him a critical, almost mocking look. All back to his usual snarky self as if finding out your father is Lucifer is a normal occurrence. "If it's such an amazing place, why argue with the righteous hand of your Lord?" John glared at him, wings flaring, the tips of clawed bone scraping the ceiling and showering them with paint chips. Sherlock's lips tightened into a thin line, obviously his confidence over the situation had been lost to his fear of exactly what John was.

"It was about five years ago, in a dingy abandoned motel room. The sky so dark you almost couldn't see, and I was told to kill one man, one insignificant tiny human being. Told to squash him underfoot and make sure to scrap off the mess." John's teeth flashed and his eyes blazed yellow, Hellfire sluggishly building in his veins. He was standing, looming above Sherlock, wings flared out prepared to strike or protect depending on the situation. "But what I found was a strung out worthless bag of flesh. Slowly killing himself on the drugs he couldn't kick. He was too stupid to realize everything he would lose and didn't know about what was to become of him. And despite his shallow emptiness, this man could not see me, and inches from death wouldn't have believed in me even if he did, spoke to me. Not with words, or conventional means but something deeper and I knew he had to live, that if I killed him there would be nothing left of anyone. That night I saved him, blessed him with the Holy Star I had been given instead of killing him with it. I saved his life at the risk of my own soul." All the fight suddenly drained from John, his wings falling limp behind him, careful to avoid Mycroft and Octavious. He looked so very small and human under the grim and ash stained into his skin.

"That man, Sherlock Holmes, was you." Sherlock's eyes flashed with something of awe and confusion and the closes to affection he'd probably ever get. "I fell, quite literally, for you. I burned for you, Sherlock. _You_ were that important." John turned then, wings drooping against the floor again, careful to drag the curves of his claws rather than the points. He moved back to his side of the couch, perching on the arm rest this time, kicking off his shoes as he sat to dig clawed toes into the crevice between the cushion and the arm. Lucifer sighed, happy and gushy, though it was starting to lose its human quality and sound more like fire and burning earth. He bounded up onto his toes, clapping his hands again, a chip of skin flaking off a spot on his jaw close to his ear.

"Well, everything is settled, I'm sure the three of you can work everything out from here, hmm? Mycroft Holmes, I'm sure you'll have questions." He twisted his wrist and in the same manner he had materialized the apple for John months (weeks, days, _years_) ago a plain black business card appeared between his index and middle finger. He flicked his hand out in Mycroft's direction. Though the elder Holmes' face hadn't fallen from of his mask of indifference, the hesitation in taking the offered card was hard to hide. He turned it in his fingers, the card blank except for the dark empty void it seemed to create in the very fabric of the world.

"Don't worry, it'll come of use." He winked at Mycroft, sly suggestive smile playing on his human lips. His hair was starting to curl more, spinning and moving around his head, like flames slowly unfreezing, coming to life, and his eyes had a black edge to them. Small chips of skin flaking off and turning to dust in the air. "Pity I have to go already, I can hold this form only so long." Octavious fiddled with his cuff links again staring off into a distance beyond Baker Street's window as his body quivered, trying to keep its human shape. Turning his blue eyes back on John, he gave him a grave look. "Before I go John, I must know…" He searched John's face briefly before running his hands down the front of his suit. "Your honest opinion, how does this body look?" His face almost split in two when he grinned. "It's rather gorgeous I have to say." He tilted his head back, running a hand through his twisting hair, the other running down the buttons of his jacket. "It took some time, but I love it. It's nice to have skin again." John almost smacked his palm to his face. But it was nice of him to lighten the mood a bit.

"You look excellent _your highness_. Now don't you have somewhere to be?" Octavious pouted shuffling his feet a bit.

"Yes, yes, the wife needs tending, but do you have to spoil my fun?"

"Yes, now go to Hell." Was John's instant response and Octavious grabbed at his chest.

"Oh, dear wonderful John! You may have dosed my Hellfire." He stumbled, a complete accident from the looks of it. "John, you do tease. But it seems I have to leave now, don't get into too much trouble without me darling." He twisted his fingers around the cufflinks again, giving John a sly grin that murmured of "watch what I can do."

"Cause a mess and I'll-" he never finished his sentence. In a blaze of brimstone and black and blue and white flames Octavious burned into a pile of dust that oddly looked like crushed obsidian on their rug. "Well…" John grumbled, "could have been worse."

-v-v-

That night the three of them didn't sleep.

Mycroft had questions, needed reassurances that his brother, no matter how supposedly powerful he was or would be, was safe with John.

Sherlock had questions, needed reasons and evidence on how he hadn't seen any of this sooner, despite his lack of knowledge on the human condition.

They talked about what happened with Moriarty-Michael- and what the official reports Mycroft was going to have to write up and lock away were going to be, and what they were going to tell Lestrade the official report was. Mycroft had called 'Anthea' to the pool, asked her to dispose of the explosives quietly and to gather the dust. He is sure that Sherlock was going to want to experiment on it, Mycroft would send him some samples before sending some off to the labs.

And of course, both insisted on watching John put the restraining tags back on.

"Take the shirt off." Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently, arms folded pulling his imitation of a petulant child rather well as he stood a safe distance behind John who stood in the center of the living room.

"Why the bloody hell should I take off my shirt? Isn't enough I'm letting you watch at all?" John snarled, the closest he would ever get to sounding demonic . Mycroft moved to stand closer to Sherlock, leaning on his umbrella giving John a once over.

"Apologies John, I'll agree with Sherlock on this one. Shirt, off. It'll be easier on you I am sure, and it's an obstruction for our viewing." He reasoned, which was far better than Sherlock's "because" just a second ago.

"Shirts ruined anyway…" John sighed unbuttoning the top buttons on his shirt and sliding it and the sweater over his head, easy seeing as the wings had ripped long lines down the back. He dropped the ruined articles at his feet and flexed the bones of his back. "Better?" He glared over his shoulder, but neither were looking at him. They were looking at the hideous charred flesh around where his wings grew from his back. John looked away, feeling a wave of self-consciousness roll through his stomach.

The Fallen all looked the same on their backs. The fall wasn't so bad to them in general, they kept a human shape, they were eternally marked by the fires they fell into, but they retained some of their flesh. Their backs though, their backs where their wings had burned in the atmosphere, scraping away at their angelic power and burning them away to the very bone, was another reason they hid from the other residents. It spread out from the protrusions, down the back. Closest to the bone, it looked like crumbling earth, if you touched it the whole of their back could fall apart. John had seen it, the skeletal insides and empty nothing that was what made up his eternal body. A gaping nothing. As the destruction radiated further from the greatest impact cracks and fissures rattled across his back and up just barely over his shoulders. And then there was the gold pulsing scar in his left shoulder, that still hurt on occasion, holy power still evident in the mark of his banishing.

He couldn't see Sherlock move, but he could feel the air shift as Sherlock's trembling hand reached to run long white fingers over blackened bone wings. John jerked them out of reach, pulling them as close to his crumbling back as possible.

"Don't, Sherlock. You saw what I did to that Angel." His heart was pounding, frightened of what, exactly, hellfire would do to the detective.

"Don't be ridiculous John." Sherlock derided. "Lucifer said himself, I have a piece of his soul, I'm sure it won't do any such thing."

"Sherlock. You're human, despite what you might think. Your soul is powerful but it's trapped in a human vessel. I could very well kill you." Mycroft's umbrella came into play after that, crossing Sherlock's chest and pulling him back a few steps.

"Please proceed, John." He nodded at the glinting chain in his loose hand. John bit his lip, keeping his attention on the wall opposite him. It was going to hurt, he remembered that much. The chain fell around his neck and-_dearLucifermotherofHell_- it burned hotter and brighter than it had the first time. His human heart stuttered in his chest, and he's sure he died at least twice during the process. His bones cracked and groaned, collapsing in on themselves and ripping through the crumbled flesh of his back. His claws withdrew into his fingers, his vision fluctuated as his eyes changed shape and color. He doesn't know when it happened but somewhere during the process he had collapsed onto aching knees, and hellfire was scorching across his wounds, sealing the flesh together as Lucifer once had, but from the inside. John was gasping, sweating, and shaking by the time it was done, the new bones in his back shifting to find a comfortable position under the constraining skin.

Both brothers were silent.

-v-v-

John slept after that, asking Mycroft to stay long enough for him to rest, to wake him if something happened. The older Holmes' only nodded in agreement, Sherlock didn't argue, having busied himself with the Bible, seeing if he could find what truths lay in the scriptures compared to what Lucifer had told them.

Crawling into his human bed had some sort of comfort. The soft, familiar blankets cool and soothing around his overheated flesh. He closed his eyes, just as rays of the morning sun bounced off a neighboring window and into his room.

It was 3:06 the next morning, according to John's clock and the lack of light outside his window. The room was silent, and surprisingly the only sounds from downstairs were the quiet whispers of Mycroft and his assistant. John blinked, contemplating the darkness, trying to decide what had woken him. At about this time in the morning, Sherlock was either just waking up or causing a ruckus right before sleep. The first couple weeks it used to wake John, every night without fail. But as he stayed with Sherlock, got used to his schedule, he was easily able to sleep through the noise.

Tonight it was quiet. John listened harder, and that's when he moved. His dressing gown swishing about his legs as he slid closer to the bed. John lay on his stomach, face turned away from the window, as he usually did. A hand hovered over the skin of his back, debating what its next move was.

"Did you need something Sherlock?" The hand snatched away, and he stood still, as if hoping John would think it was all his imagination and go back to sleep. His skin had already returned to its normal pinkish tone, the glow of hellfire having dimmed once he awoke from sleep. "Sherlock, I know you're there." Hesitantly, Sherlock shifted again, perching himself on the edge of John's bed, near his hip. John shifted slightly, just to get more comfortable, his wings shifting under his skin. His legs had managed to hold onto the blankets, but they had slid down his body, as they usually did, almost as if to give his skin more room. Sherlock's fingers finally tipped forward again, stopping inches from skin, before resting a palm flat in the dip between John's shoulder blades, purposefully avoiding the hidden wings.

"No, I don't need anything, I just…" his fingers trailed down John's spine, before slowly sliding back up. "Does it… do they hurt?" He ran the tips of his fingers over the skin of one of John's shoulders, careful to avoid the bones.

"Sometimes." John hummed, closing his eyes to the sensation.

"What about this?" His voice was soft, but scientific in its method. As he spoke, his fingers ran over a shoulder blade, down John's back, tracing the bones of his wings. The skin shifted under his touch.

"No… just different." He could hear Sherlock nod, before an arm folded across John's back, fingers cupping his shoulder blade, his other hand still caressing John's bones.

"Go back to sleep John." Sherlock whispered, his curls tickling John's skin as the detective rested a cheek against his forearm. John sighed and complied, the fire under his skin slowly built into a warm glow, heating Sherlock's cold skin as the Fallen Angel fell back into comfortable sleep.


	5. Not All Humans are Born Good

**Chapter Title:** Not All Humans are Born Good  
><strong>Chapter Rating:<strong> M (I'm just… really mean to John guys)  
><strong>Chapter Length:<strong> 1,919 (shorter chapter, how did I do that?)

**Warning(s):** A lot of references to religion in this chapter, actual violence, some major character death, Irene being Irene

**Pairing/Characters:** John, Sherlock, mentions of Moriarty/Michael, Irene, some American peeps, no pairing this chapter.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock, or Sherlock Holmes, they belong to Sir Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. Nevertheless, I do own the story and the descriptions of people in the story, I don't claim however to own the names of the people I'm describing.  
><strong>AN:** So aside from Teeth by Lady Gaga, I also listened to Marry the Night be here when writing this "chapter." I add quotes because I didn't have chapters until recently when D.A.V.I.D. decided not to read the lastest scene that I wrote because she "couldn't find where she left off" which is a ridiculous excuse personally, and kind of hurtful that apparently Lucifer isn't cool enough for her to read what I've put out :/ But she's read this, and it could be that she never forgave me for a silly silly mistake. And when I say "never forgave me" what I meant is that she can't take this chapter or Irene seriously anymore because of this mistake. In fact I probably ruined the whole fic with that one mistake seeing as she asked me the other day in all seriousness if "there was a sex scene in this fic" which, by the way there will be and she did read it. So yes, short chapter is short, but I'll post the sixth chapter quickly because of this. Also, for fair warning I deviate from the episodes A LOT in these two chapters, so don't complain too hard?

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><p>Life fell back into place after that, not necessarily as easy as it was before. But in some ways it was easier. At night, after a long case, a long day, a boring day, John would lay down to sleep and without fail sometime around three in the morning, Sherlock would come up to lie down for sleep as well, pressing his cheek into John's warm back, finding some sort of calm and peace in the feel of hellfire under his fingertips. It was the only real thing that changed. He didn't have to worry or hide from Sherlock, but sometimes he wished he could hide from the questions and the glances. Mycroft trusted him enough to not bother him as often as he had before, but he had just as many if not more questions than his younger brother. Sometimes, they really were more alike than either would admit to. Lestrade was a little more suspicious though, he knew something happened at the pool that neither were telling him. And he insisted it was more than Mycroft's secret "official report", he really was smarter than Sherlock gave him credit for.<p>

But Molly was still sweet little old Molly.

"Going well?" Molly smiled quietly to John putting her hands in her coat pocket as Sherlock hoarded over a body of the most recent victim of some serial killing.

"Yea, fortunately." John sighed, leaning back against the wall.

"Umm, John, can… I ask you…?" She was biting her lip now and John brushed his fingers against her wrist to comfort her. She smiled wearily again, and neither noticed Sherlock turning his attention to them. "Jim… there was… he wasn't what he seemed was he?" She was looking down at her feet, pushing a piece of lint across the floor with the tip of her shoe.

"Of course he wasn't." Sherlock snorted, grabbing their attention. "He was gay." He rolled his eyes. "It had been so _obvious_."

"That's not what I meant, Sherlock." And she actually pulled off a glare that made him blink at her in the closest to surprise John had seen since revealing himself.

"No, Molly, he wasn't what he seemed." His fingers rubbed against her wrist again, he wished there was more he could do. She nodded and sighed looking down at her feet and letting out a sad little laugh.

"I had thought it was too good to be true. He was so sweet, and actually listened when I spoke." She let her forehead fall to the side and press to John's shoulder. "He was after Sherlock, wasn't he." This time, it wasn't a question. Sherlock was watching John, evenly, but there were questions he had and John knew he was answering later.

"Yea." John pat her back, rubbing circles into her shoulder blades, a comforting gesture no matter what realm you were in.

"But you kept him safe." She sniffled a bit, wiping at her nose with her sleeve to keep from getting snot on John's jumper.

"Yea." She nodded into his shoulder before pulling back and smiling at him, her face slightly splotchy from tears.

"Then everything is alright." John smiled back at her, patting her arm.

"Yea." With that Sherlock distracted them both by jumping into deduction, before swirling out of the room, coat flapping behind him more like wings then John's own. Before he left John turned, hand to the door ready to push it open. "Molly," she looked up from where she was zipping up the body bag. "If you ever see Jim around again, if he ever gets close to you, talks to you, tell me. He's dangerous… and you deserved better than him anyway." She laughed, a little lighter, not as strained.

"John, thank you."

He really would kill Michael if he showed his face again, to Molly that is. She was too good a soul for him to have hurt like that. He knew that he'd be killing Michael anyway, he'd have to if he wanted Sherlock to live. But this was just a little extra motive.

-v-v-

And then Irene stumbled along, blindly stepping into their lives thinking she was so clever and knew what she was getting into putting herself into their worlds.

It should have been an easy in, easy out case. It sounded relatively easy at least. Just some pictures, right? And yet here he found himself in the doorway of her lounge, Sherlock staring rather uncertain up at her, as she had gotten so close to Sherlock when John wasn't looking. He narrowed his eyes at her, and her smile fell.

"Sherlock… step away from her." He whispered, Sherlock glanced between the two of them, trapped against the back of the couch.

"Jealous John?" She smiled seductively, taking a side long glance at Sherlock. "But of who?" John snarled, deep and scathing and suddenly she was across the room, using the chair as a temporary shield as she glared at him. "You can't be…" She whispered. John snatched Sherlock's coat from where he left it and tossed it to the naked woman. Slightly taken off guard she caught it and quickly wrapped herself in it.

"I can be what I want, and you were trying to seduce my charge." She smiled, and moved around the chair, taking up a curled position in it.

"I do apologize. I'm just… so hungry." She sighed, eyes roving over Sherlock's lean figure. Pale eyes snapped to look at John, demanding answers to questions he dare not ask.

"She's a succubus, Sherlock." His eyes snapped back to her, glaring as if he could drag that information from every portion of her.

"Half, John, I'm half. When I die I might be granted full privilege, but that will hopefully be a while off. My father was sent on an errand, met my mother. He wasn't allowed to stay up here, after all he was a demon. But he visited often enough to help me learn and tame what I was. Don't worry, I don't actually feed on sex, but it does quench the hunger." She was talking to John, but her eyes were never off Sherlock or his body. "And what are you, John Watson, he told me I'd met others like us, but… this is my first time speaking with one." John put the bowl of water on the table, but didn't sit.

"They prefer the term Unholy, creatures born from a corrupted human soul. You're lucky he didn't kill your mother, or you. Some are like that." She pursed her lips and brought the coat closer around her body as if to shield herself from his words. "And _don't_ compare me to you, I don't prey on human lives." She glared at the lack of information, but knew she wasn't getting more.

Sherlock sent him out after that, he had enough information to know to avoid any contact with Irene. The plan went through as expected, she revealed the location of the photos, but, well, Sherlock's plans always had a habit of falling through. The cold barrel of a gun pressed to the base of his skull, digging into his spine.

"Mr. Archer, on the count of three, shoot Dr. Watson."

His brain fizzled. "What?" But no one was paying attention to him. He hadn't been shot since long before becoming an angel, and his mind could barely remember that. And right now he was wearing his human skin, what would happen if he was shot?

"I don't know the code."

1

"I don't know the _code_."

2

"She didn't tell me, I _don't know it._"

John was shaking at this point, Sherlock didn't know the code, no matter how clever he is, how could he possibly guess something so important under so much stress-

3

There was a loud bang ringing in his ears and the last thing he felt was his face dropping to the coffee table before him.

-v-v-

It was oddly quiet, and oddly calm, dying a third time. He felt light though, not heavy and burdened by his death as he had remembered the first time. It was weird being able to count how many times you die. So many people and religions stated it was a onetime deal and after that you were blissfully free or eternally damned. So far he had experienced death three times and both endings, and neither of them had been what he had expected, or even maybe hoped for.

John's brain was sluggish, as one would be after dying especially after having a bullet go through it. He realized that there was a low buzzing in his ears and that his eyes were closed. Prying them open his vision was encompassed by white, and he wondered briefly if it was really possible he could have gone to heaven again. No, he is sure God would kick him out, or maybe he had been brought there to die for his sins and for getting in the way of the Lord's Holy commands. The buzzing grew louder, and less muddled until he could hear voices. He could hear Adler's muffled cries of shock and horror, screaming about rights and death. Sherlock was growling, demanding the American man stop pointing that damn gun at him and allow him to go to John. Ah, red started growing into his vision, blocking out the white with a deep scarlet, almost black color, dotted with small bits of pinkish grey.

No one was paying attention to him now that he was dead, which was a good thing in John's case, it gave him the chance to sit for a bit, and recollect his scattered thoughts, and brain. The man was telling Sherlock that Adler was next if he didn't open the safe and the obnoxious detective grew oddly silent.

1

His attention was on Sherlock, as well as the one that had so kindly shot John. The one behind Adler however, kept his attention on the back of her neck. John moved slow, and languid, to keep from being noticed.

2

He was fast, faster than any normal human, and too fast for any of them to know what hit them. Archer was blessed that John didn't completely hate him and was given a well-deserved right hook to his temple, fracturing and probably breaking several bones. It wasn't nearly as strong as he could have made it, but the man would live, and that had to count for something. The distraction he caused gave enough time for Sherlock and Adler to knock out both the other men who's attention had been diverted by the shock of a dead man standing back up.

Standing was a loose term, John wobbled a second letting himself collapse on the couch and rub his hands over his face and across the bullet hole. He groaned as hellfire burned through his cranium sealing up skin and rebuilding bone and fixing up fusing brain matter back together. Sherlock's hands hovered by John's head and shoulder, unsure if he should touch John or not.

"I… am going to have a massive headache… all day. Just, open the damn safe Sherlock." He pulled his hands away, wiping away the blood that had dripped into his eyes. Sherlock gave a cocky smile, straightening up and moving to the safe. He stood staring at the number pad for a few seconds before jabbing in some random numbers and grabbed at the handle. He hesitated just a moment.

"You might want to duck John."

"Gladly."

* * *

><p><em>AN: JK, no actual major character death, just John being a Fallen and getting shot. *laughs*_


	6. The Gravitational Pull of Sin

**Chapter Title:** The Gravitational Pull of Sin  
><strong>Chapter Rating:<strong> T (don't worry, we are so close)  
><strong>Chapter Length:<strong> 3,0009 (wow, only 9 over)

**Warning(s):** A lot of references to religion in this chapter, some talk about violence, and some more pain on John's part (like seriously guys, I'm so mean to him in this fic, especially in later chapters)

**Pairing/Characters:** John, Sherlock, mentions of Moriarty/Michael, Irene again, no pairing this chapter.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock, or Sherlock Holmes, they belong to Sir Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. Nevertheless, I do own the story and the descriptions of people in the story, I don't claim however to own the names of the people I'm describing.  
><strong>AN:** I wonder if I didn't rush it just a bit. I feel like I did, you'll understand what I mean, but you're all probably giving me a look like "this is in the M section, why so many T chapters?" Well, don't worry, next chapter, definite sex, like no way to avoid it sex. So if God forbid you are reading this for plot and NOT sex avoid the next chapter, but this chapter go ahead and read, cause there is more Irene… wooh. Can I say I hate Irene in the show? But for what I have planned for her in this I actually don't mind her so much? Yea, I'm weird like that. Also, I keep forgetting to mention that I haven't rewritten most of the chapters before posting and I probably won't until after I finish writing the whole fic. Also, also, to keep in mind after saying that I haven't rewritten: MORE THAN HALF THIS FIC WAS WRITTEN BETWEEN 1 AND 5 IN THE MORNING. So I there are some REALLY derpy parts in any of the chapters it's because god damn I was tired but god damn I wanted to finish the scene. Or something like that.

* * *

><p>It's a couple of weeks, and its Christmas and John is enjoying this, with Sherlock. With his friends, their friends. His new girlfriend is a little demanding, a little selfish, doesn't quite understand and he can't quite explain to her. Sarah had been good, she had known that there was a reason, a good reason why John followed Sherlock and somehow she didn't attribute it to him being closeted for the detective, not like the other girls that came after. That had been one of the problems though. He wasn't human, and yet Sherlock still enjoyed his company, still wanted him around. If John were human, the excitement and his growing affection for the man would be enough to keep him around. But Sarah had been clever, she knew that Sherlock would come first because whatever this thing between the two flat mates was more important than anything else, even more important than John's illogical feelings for the man he was supposed to be protecting.<p>

The night went well, or decent. Except, for the first time John actually contemplated murdering Sherlock, for insulting Molly and he could see it coming a mile away but he couldn't stop it. He wanted to touch her arm like he had in the morgue, he wanted to rub her shoulders in comfort and murder Sherlock and Lestrade would probably turn a blind eye just this once.

But he didn't, and he wouldn't. Because it was his job, and he cared too damn much.

And then Adler died.

-v-v-

He watched as Sherlock showed emotion more openly after her death. More openly, in a Sherlock way. He never put down the violin, unless to pick up Adler's phone and stare at the screen, John had to force him to sit down and eat. He didn't join John at night anymore either, keeping to himself downstairs. And no matter how John put the pieces together he couldn't figure out why exactly Sherlock was mourning her death so harshly. He only spoke to John to refuse to go to sleep and to ask if there was a case, or correct the television. Except once.

"I thought, for a moment… that you had died." He had whispered to the window panes, but when John tried to get him to speak it up, he just put the violin to his chin and played some shrill annoying melody.

-v-v-

Mycroft picked him up on New Year's Eve, had Anthea drop him off who knows where. But it was Adler he met, not the other Holmes' brother.

"Tell him you're alive." He found himself whispering, because he really couldn't bring himself to watch Sherlock continue like this.

"He'll come after me."

"I'll come after you if you don't."

"Mmm, I believe you. What exactly are you, John. You aren't an Angel, I can tell that much. You would have killed me on the spot if you were. So what are you?"

"You were dead, on a slab. It was definitely you."

She sighed, knowing she wasn't going to get the information very easily. "DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep. What about your DNA, John? What will come up when we put your blood in?"

They were silent for a moment.

"I made a mistake, I gave Sherlock something for safe keeping and now I need it back. And I need your help."

"Tell him, you're alive." They were silent another moment. She could sense John, he was sure, she may only be half, and in all technical terms not even that. But even a human like Molly could sense it at times, so he was sure someone who is slightly more could as well. She knew when she was beat.

"What do I say?"

"What do you _normally_ say? You've texted him a lot."

"Just the usual stuff." She pursed her lips, checking her phone.

"There is no usual in this case."

" 'Good Morning.' " She laughed quietly to herself as she scrolled to another. " 'I like your funny hat.' 'I'm sad tonight, let's have dinner.' 'You look sexy on crime watch, let's have dinner.' 'I'm not hungry…' " She looked to John then, gauging his reaction. " 'Let's have dinner.' "

"You flirted… with Sherlock Holmes." He shouldn't have been as surprised as he was or as jealous. He had almost hoped that when Sherlock desperately groped for his phone at the sound of her incoming texts that she was playing him about other things. About important things. Rather than her succubus needs.

"_At_ him… he never responded."

"No, Sherlock always responds." John's stomach curled on itself and he felt a bit rejected in a way. "To everything. He's Mr. Punchline, he will outlive God trying to have the last word." And he is sure Sherlock would, just to prove that he could.

"Does that make me special?" There was a twinkle in her eye then. As if she had somehow won.

"I don't know… maybe." Probably, most possibly. The only person John had ever seen Sherlock show any sort of interest in, and somehow it made his inhuman heart twist around that he was his protector and nothing more.

"You jealous?" She smiled impishly, and John would have rolled his eyes if he weren't so frustrated at the woman. To himself he was whispering an infinite number of 'yes', but his mouth moved the mechanical words he'd said with such conviction so many times before that they slipped off his tongue so easily.

"We're not a couple."

"Yes you are." She was at her phone again, but she was so convinced like everyone else, it had to be true. "There. 'I'm not dead, let's have dinner.' " She held her phone for John to see.

"I don't know why everyone assumes it, but Sherlock and I are not in a relationship." And she smiled at that, a twinkle in her eye.

"Whatever helps you get through the day, but at night, I'm sure you wish you were."

A moan echoes through the room and neither can move or breathe.

-v-v-

Six months doesn't seem like it should be that long, or should feel as long as it did. But it was like six months of sleepless nights. After Sherlock had started joining him at night, sleep had been easier, everything had been easier, he didn't have to keep one eye open worrying about where Sherlock was when he was just right next to him and he could feel every shift he made. But as quickly as it started it had stopped and John woke up some mornings, around three according to the digital clock and miss the feeling of a cheek pressed to his skin, and the silence. He'd find it hard to fall back asleep, listening to Sherlock downstairs.

Irene wasn't a full-fledged Succubus but somehow her claws had sunk deep in such a short time. Sherlock was obsessed, with the damn phone, and her damn case, and John was sick of it. And then she was in their flat, and suddenly everything for one moment was so spiraled and shot out of control he wanted to hermit himself away in the crags of hell.

And suddenly she was gone again, disappeared from their lives and John realized how quickly humans come and go, and for a moment he was scared for Sherlock, scared for what he could end up doing or end up becoming.

Several weeks later and Adler was dead again, but John knew she wasn't, Sherlock wasn't going to let that happen. But it was alright.

That night, Sherlock joined him again. Climbing in beside John and curling up with his protector. Under the covers, his toes curled up against John's warm calves, taking deep steadying breathes and just enjoying John's scent. Rather than press his face to John's smooth back his cheek rested on ash blonde hair, ruffling the strands with every gentle exhale. His body was pressed close to the line of John's, half collapsed on top of the Fallen, while his legs tangled under the sheets with the other's. His chest to John's back, his left hip pressed to John's right, his hand running up and down John's arm before resting at his elbow.

"For a period of time, I wondered why you tolerated me, so few do, and only temporarily. Even Mycroft finds my lack of social knowledge tedious." His head turned, lips quite by accident brushing John's ear. "If you were human, if I were not Lucifer's son, would you have stayed?" John's current position hid Sherlock's expression from him and the dark made it safe for him to voice such concerns, even if he sounded as if he were unaffected by the thoughts.

He smiled at the insecurities, responded without hesitation, didn't need to think, he had thought on this so often, so recent, that he didn't need to imagine it.

"Yes." Sherlock's head turned again, sharp cheek bone pressing softly into John's cheek. "I lived once, a hundred or so years ago. But I prefer it here. Ironic, now that I'm not even human."

"John," Sherlock's voice trembled in the empty space between them, and he turned his head and pulled back just enough to touch his lips to John's skin, a mimic of a kiss, as he looked down upon him. "Go to sleep." He couldn't hold the chuckle that slipped his lips and Sherlock didn't pull his lips from John's temple so he decided it was safe enough to fall asleep with Sherlock curled up beside him.

-v-v-

Sherlock started coming back to his bed again, something that made John relax more than it should. Irene had dug her fingers in deep, filling Sherlock's head and controlling his mind. He guesses it could have been worse. She could have been an Angel, one of Moriarty's little messengers, and with how close she had gotten to Sherlock it would have been easy for her to kill him. But she was just a Succubus caught up in the wrong places with the wrong people and asking a criminal mastermind for the help she needed to keep safe. He wonders if she even knew what Moriarty actually was, but he guesses that they never met in person and she wouldn't have known what to look for even if they had.

There's something subtle about the way Sherlock started getting closer to John, started deducing and questioning more. He came downstairs one morning to Sherlock at the kitchen table, goggles in place and test tubes in hand. He takes every morning in stride and really, it's nothing new.

"Was your past family life recreated upon returning to this plane?" Sherlock asked as John passed behind him with a cup of tea in hand.

"What?" He wishes he'd use understandable English this early in the morning.

He makes a frustrated noise, measuring out some chemical into a test tube. "Did you have any siblings before."

"Yes."

"Anything like your sister?"

"No, not really. He was still in school when I died." John paused for a moment, he had never really thought about it, nor questioned anything of after his death.

Without turning and without even really letting John finish Sherlock interjected with his next question. "How _did_ you die?" Really, should have known that was the question Sherlock had been aiming to ask.

"Flu." That got Sherlock to turn. He is looking at John through large ridiculous looking goggles, his hair pinned back wildly to keep it from his eyes.

"Flu."

"Enteric Flu." He specifies, as if it was important. He sips at his tea, a little too hot to actually enjoy, but Sherlock is blinking at him owlishly and those goggles really do make him look ridiculous. "It's bubbling, you know." Sherlock seems a little taken aback by the sudden change in subject, but he turns in time for a plum of black smoke to erupt into his face. He coughs, making note of it in a mental sheet he probably has written up.

John is typing at his blog later that evening when Sherlock hovers in the doorway of the kitchen. His hair is still wildly pinned back, the goggles hanging around his neck. Black chemical powder is smudged on his face, and a strange green goop is crusted onto his cheek.

"I'd assumed it was something more… exciting." Sherlock says from the doorway. His cup of tea is cold by now, but he sips at it anyway, glancing across the room to the dark haired man. It takes him a moment to recall their conversation. It's a bad tendency that Sherlock possesses. To pick up a conversation, hours, days later, and not get why others forgot about it.

"You can't get everything right."

-v-v-

Days or weeks later, Sherlock crawls up onto his bed, preparing to curl next to John. He pulls back for a moment, watching the way the Fallen's muscles move and rise with every breath. John shifts his head to look at Sherlock from under his bangs. The detective just bats his eyes at him, in a completely unintentional way, before straddling John's hips and laying his body out on top of John's. John falls asleep to patterns being traced into the skin of his right shoulder, and a heavy warm heat nestled on top of him.

-v-v-

There's glass and chemicals all over the table, and across the floor. John shook his head, sitting up from where he'd dropped down during the unexpected explosion.

"Which compound was it?" Sherlock bounded giddily into the kitchen, almost grinning at the prospect of a case almost over. "Was it the-" he stuttered in his step, as John reached back and extracted a rather large curved piece of glass from the back of his head. Short fingers passed over the blood and mess, he groaned, pulling his fingers away the skin sizzled as it fused back together. He nearly jumped out of his human skin when surprisingly delicate long fingers ran down his back. He hissed, feeling the glass shift under the skin.

"Let me help you."

The tweezers were cool against John's back, almost as cool as Sherlock's pale fingers.

_Pluck, pluck_ and a swipe of hand. With every extracted piece of glass Sherlock would run his palm and fingertips over sizzling wounds healing over. He had an obsession, not with John, but with his back. With the wings that erupted from them when a metal chain was pulled from his neck. There was an urgency in the way he wielded the tweezers, but there was also a relaxed concern about the way his fingers moved across his skin. There were scars there, barely visible where cracks in his back had formed from charring and smashing into the ground. He had been lucky.

"What physical changes did you experience upon dying? Upon being reanimated?" Sherlock's curiosity unable to keep him quiet, his fingers trace a dark patch of skin where his wings would protrude from his scapula.

"I don't know. Hitting the ground steals your memories of heaven. And I'm not a reanimated corpse, Sherlock… I'm just… wearing human skin." He ran his thumbs over the edge of the back of the chair. It was always uncomfortable talking to Sherlock about this, he had a way of bringing up things he didn't think about. Maybe he was a reanimated corpse, just instilled with life and hidden under false skins to keep the stench and decay off.

"Yet you remembered me." The tweezers were pressed lightly around a piece of glass and neither moved after the words were whispered to the back of John's neck.

"You're not really the easiest person to forget."

They were silent from there, the glass clinking together in the small metal bowl sat on the table next to them. Dropping the tweezers for a moment, Sherlock ran a wet rag over the fine muscles of John's back, removing drying blood and revealing the fresh tracks the only marker as to where the other pieces of glass are.

"I did have a limp, before I died." John started rather suddenly, startling both of them with the topic he had chosen. Normally he answered Sherlock's questions but didn't bring it up himself. "A real one."

"How?" Sherlock said instead of any clever deductions he could have made, there was no evidence for him to use. John could say he had been a flying pink giraffe and Sherlock would have to believe him because there was no evidence to disprove such a notion.

"Battle of Maiwand… Afghanistan. That was a very lucky guess, by the way. Lucifer had left the choice to me when it was time to come back, I hadn't decided yet." Another tug from the tweezers, a slow drag of hand.

"A limp having crossed lifetimes. Very persistent." Another drag of fingers.

John laughed, "When you put it that way, yes, it was rather stubborn-" his laugh died on his lips, Sherlock was pressed up behind him, chest pressing clean against John's back. His hips sliding up against John's, somehow managing to seat himself behind John on what little room there is left on the wooden seat.

"John." He whispered against the back of his neck. His fingers roamed across John's ribs, up his chest, over his arms and shoulders, touching caressing anywhere the flesh was revealed. "I…" He pressed closer , his face in the crook of John's shoulder and neck, eyes closed tightly shut if his lashes brushing against his spider web scar was any indication.

He was gone, only seconds after, as if he had been possessed and suddenly awake again, unsure of what his body had done, out the door and down the stairs, coat flaring behind him. A mess of chemicals and singed soggy papers on the table mixed in with the glass left for John to clean up. After the ash incident, Mrs. Hudson had been keen on avoiding cleaning their flat at all. He really needed to get Sherlock to start cleaning his own messes.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Also, I am shit at chapter titles. Just sayin'._


	7. In the Dark He Calls

**Chapter Title:** In the Dark He Calls  
><strong>Chapter Rating:<strong> M  
><strong>Chapter Length:<strong> 2,630

**Warning(s):** Ok, we finally made it guys, the sex scene, YES THERE IS SLASH AND SEX IN THIS CHAPTER IF YOU LIKE THE STORY AND AREN'T A BIG FAN OF SLASH DON'T READ THIS CHAPTER, OK? OK! Seriously, I'll make sure any sex scenes are always just one chapter so that if you guys aren't interested in that stuff you can skip, good good.

**Pairing/Characters:** John, Sherlock, with pairing John/Sherlock, or Sherlock/John, however you want to read it.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock, or Sherlock Holmes, they belong to Sir Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. Nevertheless, I do own the story and the descriptions of people in the story, I don't claim however to own the names of the people I'm describing.  
><strong>AN:** Alright guys, thanks for sticking with me, sorry for taking so long on chapters, I've been working on Chapter 10 and I didn't want to be one of those people that catches up to the chapter I'm on and then takes forever, so I've been withholding chapters, sorry about that guys. So once I got back on track with Chapter 10 and have gotten it going I decided it was time to post the 7th chapter, so here it is. The Sex. Yes, with a capital S. Once again, this was written at like 3 in the morning, I apologize for spelling mistakes or if it sound stupid. Just drop me a review or a message if I did make a mistake and I'll change it when I get the chance. REMEMBER I AM GOING TO EVENTUALLY REWRITE THIS WHOLE FIC, TOP TO BOTTOM so anything that needs touching up or changing, let me know and I'll do it. Believe it or not, song that I listened to WAY too much for this chapter was Love is a Battlefield by Pat Benatar, shush, don't look at me like that. I listen to strange music while writing, I have the unique ability to listen to music that doesn't fit the scene I'm writing, though really, I guess the song isn't REALLY far off like some of the songs I listen to are. No spaces this chapter, I was kind of excited.

* * *

><p>Three nights later he wakes to a pressure around his neck. For a moment he thinks someone is trying to suffocate him. Which would be funny seeing as he really doesn't need to breathe. It's more a habit than necessity. Then he panics, because they are clearly playing with the chain around his neck, preparing to remove it? Sever it? It didn't matter, fingers were gliding across the metal and skin and- <em>oh<em>. And didn't he know those hands better than his own?

Sherlock was straddling his hips, fingers pressed into John's back, the other hand running its tips across metal created in the pits of hell.

"What was it like…?" his voice is quiet, almost lost in the gloom that settles around John's eyes. There is a faint glow, from beyond the slightly opened door, giving enough light to reveal the outlines of what little is in his room.

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

He snorts and John can almost _hear_ him roll his eyes. "What do you think John?" He presses his fingers hard into the scar at his shoulder and he hisses, sitting up abruptly, throwing Sherlock off his back and turning to look at the other man. "What was it like to fall?" His eyes glow bright in the gloom and John feels trapped and pinned as Sherlock slides forward, the sheets crumpling under his knees. He should slip away, move as far from the other man as he possibly can. But his muscles have frozen, and the idea of boxing himself in against the headboard and Sherlock doesn't sound like a good idea. Sherlock is very close, John can feel the detective's breath slip past his cheeks and see the glint of dark strands despite the dark around them.

"What was it like…" he's so close his lips brush John's, and the Fallen can only shiver in, what, fear? Anxiety? Anticipation? He isn't sure, but he doesn't want to move, he wants to be right here, trapped by Sherlock. "What was it like to burn?" John is shaking, and Sherlock's lips are pressing into his own, the kiss almost chaste if this weren't Sherlock. Sherlock's lips are moving again, and John almost wants to tell him to shut up. "What was it like to rise again?" Long white fingers are touching John, caressing his neck and his shoulders, grabbing at his arms and pulling him closer, up into Sherlock's lap.

"It was painful." John whispers, unsure of what to say. "It was a million different pains, more painful than getting shot had been. It was like every inch of you is burning and you can't put it out." Sherlock's lips at brushing the metal chain, the tags around John's neck clinking together, his tongue darting out to lap at the skin and metal. It sizzles at the contact, as if it's been dropped into a fire. Sherlock presses their bodies together, a frustrated noise leaving his lips when he realizes his shirt is in the way of their skin. He pulls back, enough to tug at the buttons desperately.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" John can't help but laugh, quiet and with a little too much air. But Sherlock abandons the annoying buttons half way down to press his lips back to John's, tongue darting out and swiping the seam of the doctor's lips. His fingers dig almost painfully into John's hips.

"I'm not sure." He admits, gasping into John's mouth which opens a little too willingly. "I feel… I'm physically attracted to you." He pulls John further into his lap, a hard bulge pressing into John. "Emotionally stimulated by you." And this time, his lips are soft and tender as he presses proper kisses to John's eyes and lips. "You are… the most fascinating creature I've ever known, John Watson." It should be more, to get John moving with Sherlock, but that's really all it took. He kisses back, hesitant, but his fingers are continuing the laborious task of removing Sherlock's shirt. They separate, Sherlock stripping his shirt away and tossing it. His long fingered hands trail up John's chest, one hand fingering the chain again.

"Sherlock…" John warns, reaching up to grab at his wrists but Sherlock takes John's face in his hands and stares hard at him.

"John, I want you." It's surprisingly pure intended and simple for something, for anything Sherlock could say. He wanted John as he was, inhuman and broken and damaged, and he wanted to see him. John's fingers skittered over Sherlock's wrist, caressing the skin there. He could pull Sherlock's hands away and make him leave and they would move on from this. But he didn't want that. His fingers pulled away from Sherlock's hands, running down the forearms and to pointed elbows. Sherlock took it as a go ahead and removed the metal tags from John's neck before he changed his mind. He gasped, the skin peeling open, the bones snapping and crunching back together, unfolding into their proper form. The skin of his back slowly sealed together around the bone, the feeling of his wings shifting behind him rather than confined to the human costume he paraded himself in.

The first time he had released them after confining them, had been in the heat of battle, with adrenaline and waves of hellfire pumping through his heart. Now, with his body thrumming with excitement and peace he could take the time to feel the sensations that flowed through and over him. He hadn't realized his forehead was resting on Sherlock's shoulder until fingers skated through his hair. The nails scraping gently against his scalp, sliding down the spine of his neck and further.

"Sherlock." He sighed, fingers smoothing over his shoulders, tracing the cracks in his skin. The fingers felt hot against his skin, despite the hellfire that dripped through his veins. They skimmed around the edge of the protruding bone, sending a shiver through John's body. He wanted to stop Sherlock, tell him shouldn't, beg that he don't. But the feel of hot finger tips running over his skin was too pleasant to stop. There was the barest hint of hesitation before nails scrapped against soot dyed bone. Sherlock gasped, John's moan effectively drowned by the noise, a palm sliding over John's dead wings. John pulled back, trying to pull away from the surprisingly pleasant touches.

Fingers curled around the base of his right wing holding him in place as Sherlock's lips pursued his once more, his free hand gripping the back of John's skull. His own hands rested at Sherlock's shoulders, shaking with the uncertainty of where to place them. A curious and searching tongue flicked its way into John's mouth startling him with how sure it was, and how new it all felt. The kiss should have tasted of ash and fires. Instead it was warm and pleasant tasting of chemicals and tea and London streets and the vague hint of apple. His wings were rattling together, wishing to stretch and curl at the same time as unsure and pleased as John was.

The hand in his hair left him, trailing urgently over John's skin to the front of his pants. The loose baggy cotton bottoms he wore for bed did little to hide what Sherlock had done to him. Fingers gripped at his side, and somehow Sherlock, always graceful and demanding and knowing where to put his hands managed to pull them up off the bed. His fingers traced over John's chest, clawing gently at the skin, down over soot marks and to the waistband of John's pants. He ran the tips along the seam, analyzing his next move, eyes never leaving John's yellowed ones. He seems to come to some conclusion, because before John can open his mouth to say anything Sherlock has dropped to his knees and is tugging the article down around John's ankles. Instead of words, his mouth and tongue form an incoherent moan as lips brush aching flesh. Sherlock was hesitant and obviously not experienced in the least, but he was eager and curious and sometimes that makes up for it. His fingers stuttered around John's hips, trying to figure where to put them, and how to proceed, planning and overthinking the process.

A reassuring hand was pushed through the dark locks at the top of his head, getting John a determined look and John wasn't sure how one man could pull off looking so in control and dominating when on his knees. But Sherlock pulled it off rather well.

"I have never physically desired another being the way I do you John… you're… different from all the others." Fingers curl around warm straining flesh and John has to close his eyes at the sensation, and _mercifulLucifer_ it shouldn't feel so good just to have Sherlock touch him. His fingers stroked lightly, up, down, up, down, slow and calculating and really sex shouldn't involve this much planning but somehow it was still unpredictable.

"Really, I hadn't noticed." He managed between calming breaths. Opening his eyes Sherlock was looking up at him, more confident and a little cocky now that he was sure of himself. He added a bit more pressure, before tasting John slow and testing his boundaries. His lips parted taking John in inch by inch, lips brushing the fingers that were fisted around the base, pulling back and sucking gently at the head, swirling his tongue experimentally. With every gasp and hiss and moan Sherlock grew more confident and increasingly more skilled in his endeavor to make John fall apart. A finger presses at the soft skin behind his balls sliding up to press just the tip into John. His head fell back and a deep rumble is pulled from his chest. Sherlock pulls back, looking up at John, sliding the finger all the way in. John trembles, the rattling of bones not distraction enough from the feeling of the long dexterous digit wiggling up inside of him. Sherlock brushes a kiss to John's hip, murmuring something into the skin there, possibly a prayer or some stupid deduction.

It doesn't matter, John is tugging at Sherlock's perfect hair, trying to get him to stand, because he'll be damned (and isn't it ironic that he already is) if Sherlock stays on his knees any longer and doesn't _get on with it_. Sherlock manages to get the hint and find his feet along the way, stumbling to meet John in a brutal, biting kiss. His hands are trembling, his heart palpitating, body thrumming with the very idea of Sherlock, and Sherlock being his. He tugs Sherlock's pants open, a little too frantic he is sure, but Sherlock isn't complaining, and is surprisingly still for the process, allowing himself to be wrestled free of them, kicking them from his feet as he collapsed back onto the bed, dragging John back in his lap. Sherlock's legs dangled over the side, John straddling his thighs. He could vaguely taste himself on Sherlock's tongue when their mouths met once more and he wasn't sure if he should feel disgusted or aroused knowing he'd just had _the_ Sherlock Holmes on his knees, sucking him off. Granted, Sherlock obviously still had control of that situation, but it was still a point in John's favor.

Finally, the kisses, the fingers at his hips, the moans slipping from Sherlock's throat were not enough. His hips bucked forward, sliding warm flesh together and getting a shudder from Sherlock. His head fell back, dark curls spilling around his shoulders, revealing the pale column of his neck. He smoothed his tongue up the line of the detective's throat, as the other trembled reaching and smacking at the night stand, trying to find the hand lotion he knew John kept. The other hand had surreptitiously found its way back to John's wings, running along the Humerus bone of one of the charred remains. John moaned into the skin of Sherlock's throat, the feeling of fingers on his wings felt somehow more intimate then when Sherlock had been at his feet on his knees, or sliding a finger inside his body.

The feel of nimble fingers against his useless wings distracted him from Sherlock's true target. Cold, lotion slicked fingers probed at the tight ring of muscle, massaging the slick substance into the skin and getting one wiggling up into John. He moaned, the hand around his wing pulling him closer to Sherlock's chest. His own hands gripped at Sherlock's shoulders, one of them clawing dark lines down the pale chest, leaving trails of blood. Sherlock groaned, thrusting a second finger into John, just to get the higher ground. He was writhing within a few strokes of long delicate fingers massaging and moving inside him. He claws at Sherlock's face momentarily, turning slightly opened mouth towards his own, nipping at pink lips with sharpened teeth.

He almost didn't catch it, how quiet the word was leaving Sherlock's lips, brushing against and stinging his own.

"God."

John shoved Sherlock down, wings flaring, eyes flashing, hissing at Sherlock who stared wide eyed, pupils dilated, up at John.

"He… has nothing to do with this." John snarled from the dark and positioned himself quickly, sinking warm flesh deep inside himself. Sherlock gasped, arching his back and reaching for John's hips.

"John." He moaned, a little louder this time, a little less coherent.

"Better." He whispered grudgingly as he pulled up with a wince before dropping back down again. They were silent from there, John doing most of the work, raising and lowering his hips down onto Sherlock. Well, mostly silent. Sherlock let out little uncertain gasps, surprisingly less noisy, but more vocal then John would have expected from the detective. Hands trembled at his hips, gripping in what would bruise a normal human but instead just left an electric current running through his veins. As his legs trembled, and claws shook where they scratched at Sherlock's chest the long fingered violinist's hands gripped his hips harder and lifted him. Dropping him and lifting him again, the hips snapping up to meet John's pace, taking his own weight and moving along their pleasure together.

Sherlock's shaking fingers gripped at John's arousal, trembling, stroking it and coaxing John to a frenzy. John let out a few moans of his own, closing his eyes to the sensation of being touched after hundreds, thousands, millions of years without the warm flesh of another rubbing against him. He embarrassedly came rather quick from Sherlock's touches alone. Vision going blinding white tinged with fire's and starlight and for a moment he was floating content and perfect in the balance and a between of life and the realms beyond. When his vision cleared Sherlock sat up, pressing their chests together and kissing his way up John's jaw to his lips, small uncoordinated kisses. One hand at John's lower back, as the other one circled over dark bone, feeling the coarse bone chipping and charring under his trembling fingers, using the bone to drag John closer. John was still trembling from the aftermath, from the stimulation still pressing into his body with quicker upward thrusts. And now hands were on his wings, tugging the bone, pulling and stroking them. He made a broken sobbing noise into Sherlock's shoulder at the feel, getting a groan from the consultant.

"_John_." He managed out one last time shaking apart in John's arms and releasing in John's body. They sat for a moment, completely still. Just breathing, just living, as their bodies cooled in the still air of the bedroom. Sherlock mouthed something into the skin just behind John's ear. And John pressed a kiss to dark soft curls. They collapsed together, sated and complete. And they were falling and falling and falling.

Falling together.


	8. All the Kings Horses

**Chapter Title:** All the Kings Horses  
><strong>Chapter Rating:<strong> M  
><strong>Chapter Length:<strong> 5,142 (holy shit guys, sorry)

**Warning(s):** Violence and gore guys (I'm just so mean to poor poor John), and Lucifer being a flirt, like a big flirt

**Pairing/Characters:** John, Sherlock, mentions to Sherlock/John, Lucifer/Octavious shows up, Lestrade and some Sally, and then Moriarty/Michael makes an appearance along with his special +1 guest

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock, or Sherlock Holmes, they belong to Sir Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. Nevertheless, I do own the story and the descriptions of people in the story, I don't claim however to own the names of the people I'm describing.  
><strong>AN:** As promised, when I finished typing up Chapter 10, I would post Chapter 8, and holy crap guys, sorry about it being so long, I didn't realize it was until I moved it into a separate document. Ten took a while to type up, mostly because I wasn't quite sure what I was doing with it, I knew where I wanted to get to but was just trying to get there, you know? I'll probably go back and rewrite some parts in it before I post it, but I'm on to 11 now and it's going relatively smoothly from there. Song for this chapter waaaaas, umm, I think this was the one where I listened to El Tango de Roxanne a bajillion times over, I know it doesn't fit the mood of this chapter or even really the fic, but I liked the song and it kept me writing during intense parts. Which it becomes intense, I guess explains why it's a long chapter. Not that D.A.V. would know, after chapter 7 she stopped reading and she has been slowly and haltingly getting her way through all these, I think she left off at the end of this chapter, even though she has through 9 as well. I know it may seemed rushed or I don't know, early for this, I might change it when I rewrite the story, but I had this idea, and I was debating it along with some other ideas and D.A.V. told me to go with it, so I did. On another note, I don't know if anyone is interested buuuut HEY I have a tumblr! And guess what I posted guys? A sketch of John's wings! Yup, I did it… actually, I think I drew it around the time this chapter was being written, I can't remember. Anyway, I drew it and posted it along with the reference I used, so, here is the link: http:/ /harleyscompass. tumblr. com/post/20642767967/john-and-his-wings (just copy-paste it and get rid of the spaces to reach the page)

Anyways, so thanks to everyone for the lovely reviews on this story, it makes me giddy every time when I read them and thanks to "stop reading my pen name" for pointing out my fail on the summary, go ahead and read the new summary guys, tell me what you think and if it's better or still needs improving, I'm not picky, leave reviews and yattayatta, let me know if I did something stupid somewhere in the chapter as well and I'll fix it. Enjoy the chapter and the picture, and well... just enjoy.

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><p>When John woke it was to a warm pressure against his side, long fingers running up and down his wings. He hummed in approval, much too similar to a purr for his own admittance. For a moment, he just enjoyed the feel, just breathing in the smell of Sherlock under him, and the feel of hands on his wings, and a burning heat at his side.<p>

Sherlock was breathing steady and calm beneath him, shifting their bodies with every breath he took. He mumbled something in his sleep as fingers continued stroking his wings. The pieces took surprisingly long to click, and if Sherlock had been awake he'd have sent a disapproving look in John's direction.

John's eyes snapped open to find Octavious leaning against his side, one hand running up and down the bones of one of John's wings as the other ran along human lips, smooth and even unlike the usual cracked fissures that plagued the living rock of Lucifer's true body.

"Morning sunshine." He whispered through the separation of his fingers, rather pleasantly, instead of overly excited or completely serious. More like a sad lover's croon then a crazed extremely powerful Fallen. That happened to be the father of the man John just slept with. "I have some information for you two, but you might want to get up and hide these beauties." He sighs, circling his fingers around the joint and moving his hand sensually back and forth, rather phallic and intimate in motion. John shivers, willing any arousal or pleasure away. "Oh, and you might want to get dressed. That gorgeous Yarder you hang around is going to show up soon."

Within seconds he'd shoved Sherlock out of bed, shooing him downstairs to find clothes. Lestrade wasn't a complete imbecile, despite Sherlock's ravings, and he really didn't want to risk the man finding out he wasn't strictly human… or that John had just slept with Sherlock.

Octavious lay on his stomach, arms folded and resting his chin on top, watching John with hooded eyes while he pulled the tags back over his head. It had taken a bit of searching through the sheets, no help to Octavious, but John had found the frustrating tags hidden under the man's leg who had refused to move from where he had rolled onto John's bed. After the initial waves of pain, John powered through the rest of the unpleasant feelings, unclear on what time Lestrade was supposedly going to arrive. Octavious hadn't made so much as a peep since he'd woken John. It should have been unnerving, knowing you had the Devil himself in your bedroom, on your bed, watching you throw clothes on. Especially knowing that he knew practically everything going on in your life, and the fact that he wasn't prodding at John just made the whole thing that much more uncomfortable. He gave a sly smirk, rolling onto his back and watching still despite his head hanging off the side of the bed turning the world upside down. John stopped, arms just inside the sleeves of his jumper to look at the other man.

"Well?" He said, rather peevish with how silent the normally over exuberant man was. Anything would be better than the quiet stare he was being given.

"It's inside out?" Octavious supplied helpfully. John just huffed out a frustrated sigh, rearranging the jumper and shoving it back onto his body. Octavious had rolled off the bed and sauntered downstairs during his pulling the jumper on. By the time he got downstairs, Sherlock was tuning his violin and Octavious had made himself comfortable on the coffee table. "Some tea, if you would please?" His eyes went wide and pleading knowing that John would comply even without the please. John sighed and started on some tea just in time for Lestrade to come running up the stairs, and from the sounds of it with Sally at his heels.

"Greg." Octavious crooned, like the breath had been stolen from his lungs. It made John tense, the way he seemed to exhale the name like a desperate long lost love, just the right hint of heartbreak and longing. John leaned out around the sliding doors to peek just in time to watch Octavious gracefully glide into a standing position in front of the Detective Inspector. Lestrade's ears were slightly pink, but he coughed into his fist and kept himself straight and determined.

"Octavious." He glanced at Sherlock who was sat in his usual chair, staring at them with pursed lips, bow poised to begin a tune having frozen to dissect the scene before him. His eyes slid to John before falling on Octavious once more. "Oh god, seriously?" Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest looking rather peevish. "You know _him_?" He gestured to Octavious, who looked rather annoyed that he was being rather pointedly ignored.

John covered a snicker with his hand, smiling behind what little protection it provided. "Yea, _old_ friend of mine." Octavious scowled in offense and tossed his head to pout at the corner, hair curling about his head and an odd red tint in the platinum curls showing his growing irritation.

"Unbelievable." Lestrade sighed, shaking his head, rubbing his forehead he ignored Octavious to turn to Sherlock and start talking. Having been ignored by the DI, Octavious turned his eyes on Sally, putting a thoughtful index finger to his lips as he watched her stand in the doorway, she seemed rather annoyed, like she didn't want to be there. John saw it from a mile off, Sally didn't stand a chance.

"Octavious Venour." Octavious whispered, taking Sally's hand and with a low elegant dip of his body he placed a promising kiss to the top of her hand. "The Sixth." John zoned him out as the man, demon, Lucifer, began subtly courting the poor Sergeant. Of course, subtle for Lucifer was about as refined as stabbing someone with a pencil several times in the face after telling them that is your plan. Sherlock was arguing animatedly with Lestrade over the file he'd just been handed. Realizing how little he could do, with his boss flirting with a blushing, obviously enamored, Donovan, and Sherlock calling the poor DI an idiot as he listed details off just from photos of the crime scene _imagine if you had actually called me to see the scene_. John stepped back, the kettle having finished boiling. Carrying three mugs was anything but easy, but slipping a mug into one of Sherlock's hands mid flail was harder. He started using the other hand instead, without missing a beat and without spilling a drop. Shaking his head, John took the tea cup he'd used for Octavious and set it on the coffee table. He had a feeling that even though the blonde man was leaving with Donovan, a hand at the small of her back he'd throw a tantrum later if John had forgotten to make his tea. Whether it was cold by the time he got to it or not.

Lestrade ignored Sherlock temporarily, reaching out and grabbing Octavious by the back of his very expensive collar. "Hold it!" Octavious faltered, still somehow making the move look smooth as he was dragged back from the confused looking Sally.

"She's on duty, Octavious." The DI glared, only to get the most seductive leer John had ever seen in return.

"That's half the fun." He plastered his body to the front of Greg's. "After all, you rejected and refused me, so, I have to settle for second best." His voice grew a hint of reptilian hiss, his hair shifting around his head and burning a very light orange. Donovan didn't seem to mind in the least that she had been second pickings, and Lestrade stared down at him for a moment caught in Lucifer's trap. But Octavious pulled away first grabbing one of the Sergeant's hands and spinning her into his arms, kissing her deeply as she molded her body to his. Octavious pulled back, an apologetic look as he trailed his lips to her ear and softly whispered a promise of "later my dear, we shall continue" before spinning her towards Lestrade where she stumbled and was quickly steadied by the DI.

"Alas, today was not meant to be. Lestrade, Donovan." He touched his hand to his forehead and made an acknowledging gesture as he made the slightest bow. "You see, I have some very important business to discuss with Mr. Watson, Dr. John." He smiled, toothy and sharp, and so very dangerous. He turned his full attention to John, Lestrade trying to keep a jelly legged Donovan upright while Sherlock watched Octavious with immense curiosity. A pale hand disappeared under the jacket of his three piece charcoal suit (a criminally bright blue tie and matching kerchief today), reaching farther then would strictly be necessary to pull out the manila envelope that had obviously _not_ been there two seconds previous. "I have a case for you Dear Johnny! And of course, you too Sherlock." And the way he looked at Sherlock and spoke to him was all soft tones and fatherly pride. Sherlock puffed up at that, smiling at John in a _did you hear that, Father Lucifer has invited me along as well_ kind of way.

John took the folder and opened it cautiously, there were two average humans in the room still, watching intently as to what was in the folder, so obviously Octavious wasn't going to try anything. At least, John hoped he wouldn't. He peeked into its contents, there were no papers, there were no pictures, no evidence bags or weapons. The folder was half full of tiny shards of what might have been glass or crystal. It sparkled like diffused light, dulled by dirt or murky water. Mixed with in it was a fine red dust and small pebbles of crushed obsidian. The small shards reminded him of weeks long past, the smell of chlorine and a heavy weight on his wings. He felt a throb in his shoulder thinking of the Angel he had burned. But these weren't the remains of an Angel, they were distorted and greyed by… These were the remains of several Fallen and at least one Unholy by the presence of red dust. His stomach flipped as the remains shifted in the bag to reveal a single large gold feather. A primary feather from an Archangel's wing. Michael's, no doubt. He quickly closed the folder, clutching it to his chest as he looked to Octavious, ignoring everyone else in the room.

"What is this?" He whispered, Octavious tilted his head and pursed his lips, looking more serious than the expression should grant.

"Moriarty." He responded, and really, that's all he needed to know, but for Sherlock's sake who John was intentionally _not_ handing the folder too, he continued. "He left that for me somewhere he knew I would find it, Mycroft delivered it to me this morning. The fiend realized rather quickly I had sent several of our… _friends_ to keep an eye on the two of you and recognized that if he wanted to take you out of the picture he needed the others out of the way." He nodded at the folder, looking almost as uncomfortable about its contents as John. "Three of them there, as a warning. But I know for a fact he's killed at least four more. And those he didn't bother collecting."

John didn't ask who, it wouldn't matter who. What mattered was that Michael had killed seven, _seven_ of his brother's without Octavious or himself being able to stop it.

"How many are left?" John inquired instead. The look Octavious sent him was not reassuring, his face was starting to crack, especially around his mouth and eyes. They weren't noticeable if you didn't know what to look for, but John knew the anxiety rolling off the other man (creatures, Lucifer's) skin wasn't helping his human form. It couldn't take such strong emotions.

"Honestly?" Octavious tilted his head curiously, calculating how John was going to react. "You, me, and three others. Everyone else is either in hiding, or dead." He looked away from John, down at his suit to brush away ash that was starting to settle on the jacket.

John nodded. "What should I do?"

With that Octavious shrugged, his hair a dull grey like ash, sluggishly sliding around his head, dying flames flickering around the tips, dissipating as they rolled off the strands, Lestrade and Donovan oblivious to the man's unusual hair. "You do understand I'm practically useless, yes?"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock responded for him. "Clearly. Having John do your work when you obviously know the answers to this 'case,' if you are even calling it that. How dull." He flopped into his seat, sprawling his legs before him and locking gazes with his father. Octavious grinned, his tongue flicking out over the fronts of his teeth, more cracks were spreading across his cheek, fortunately the left one and not the one Donovan and Lestrade had a good view of.

"Well, not so much a case as a… an invitation… a taunt so to speak. He knows you are his only block between him and his mission. But he also knows he is your only block between you and his… employer. His reach maybe farther than even your brother can trace," he looked to Sherlock. "But he is the best, and if he falls so does his network." He rocked back on his heels, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets and Sherlock glared, a hint of amusement under the worry. "John, if you go…" He took his eyes from Sherlock. "Be careful. And," he stepped forward, his breath sending fire over John's ear, a hand resting on John's chest emitting a blazing heat, swelling the flames in John's chest. "Don't take any extra baggage." His face turned towards John's, as John turned his minutely towards him. They gazed sideways into each other's eyes for minutes hours seconds. It should frighten him that he knew exactly what he was being told, better than if Lucifer were to have taken him by the hand and explained it all in one syllable words. Sherlock was glaring at them, having been unable to hear the whispered flicker of flame that Octavious had spoken. It wasn't until a chunk of Octavious' left cheek slid off to skitter soot across their shoes that he pulled away. A hand flew to his cheek as if John had hit him, covering the dark writhing of dead fires hidden under the skin he wore.

"It seems I've run out of time, I do apologize, I'm getting better at timing though." He laughed and it crackled at the edges. "Oh, John, good proper John. I'll be back with more information." He turned and winked at the two silent Yarders. "Later my darlings." And he bounded out the door as quickly as his expensive shoes would take him.

-v-v-

John wasn't going to show Sherlock the folder, and he definitely wasn't going to hand it over to Lestrade. "It's evidence in a murder case, yea?" _Evidence? Yea, evidence my arse._ John thought darkly as he looked around his room for somewhere to hide the folder. A folder of ash wasn't going to get the DI anywhere, and he'd be damned (he really should stop using that) if he let a _human_ hold and gaze at his fallen brothers and sisters. There was a board under his bed that was slightly loose and he was sure Sherlock didn't know of. He pried it open enough to slide the folder in and close the plank. He'd never been shown how to curse, but it came naturally to all citizens of hell according to the Unholy. And it seemed relatively true when he put his index finger to the plank and burned a symbol into the wood before blowing it away to make sure Sherlock wouldn't open it.

Downstairs Sherlock was pulling on his coat, bickering with Lestrade again, Donovan rolling her eyes and tapping her foot with impatience.

"Come John, crime to solve. We need to interrogate the step-brother in law." He shifted his feet looking to Sherlock apologetically. "John?" He was pulling his scarf on, half out the door and watching him closely. "You-?"

"Sorry, Sherlock… Clinic needs me, catch up later?" Sherlock stepped to John, looming over him and watching John's face. He'd never been a very good liar, especially not to the detective. But for once, Sherlock didn't ask, or question, or pin down his bluff.

Instead he nodded slowly. "We'll follow Octavious' lead when I get back." And a swoosh of coat and the pounding of the stairs underfoot was his only goodbye. Donovan shook her head, following after him slowly, to make sure he didn't get into trouble. Lestrade hesitated in the doorway, looking John up and down, pursing his lips in thought.

"Look, running around with Sherlock is one thing, at least you have someone to watch your back. So, just be careful, whatever it is you're going to do."

"You too, and keep an eye on him." John quirked a smile, getting a huffed laugh and a withering look.

"Don't have to tell me that." Lestrade was quickly out the door, a quiet farewell to Mrs. Hudson before going to see what the Sergeant and Sherlock were squabbling about now.

-v-v-

He didn't have to walk long, jacket wrapped loosely around him. He didn't really need it, but the weather was a heavy enough chill that he'd get looks if he didn't. The feeling of someone watching, and the dense pressure of Holy Power had him whipping his head up, looking up and down the suddenly empty street. All the people had vanished and a sinking in the pit of his stomach told him they were probably dead. At the corner down the way a man stood tall and straight, he looked human enough, blond hair catching what little light the clouds let through, an ugly scar marring his face, John couldn't tell from the distance he was at, but his gaze was piercing and the way he jerked his head before turning the corner told John this was the man he must be looking for. He followed at a leisurely pace, and a comfortable distance.

Each turn took them down more empty streets, making John more uneasy then calm. Where were the bodies going? Did they really end all those souls for the sake of getting him somewhere less crowded and unseen?

-v-v-

It was a bit cliché for John's taste, but he figured that evil masterminds could only pull off so much when wearing human skin. The strange man he'd been following stood in the middle of the empty and possibly abandoned warehouse, facing the door John side stepped through. He didn't want to place his fingertips anywhere, in case things went sideways and he had to make a break before the cops arrived. There was a pistol held loosely in the human's hand hanging at his side. But John knew that you didn't need a firm grip in order to aim and empty a round into an unsuspecting victim. He was fortunate, then, that during the "Adler Incident" he'd had a crash course in being shot with modern weapons. Why Moriarty had given this man a gun to kill John with, he wasn't sure. Maybe to see if it was true. After all, human weapons did nothing to angels, disintegrated in their holy light or phased through them. Maybe he was curious how it looked for a dead man to sit back up.

"Not quite, Johnny boy." A voice crooned behind him. He almost, quite literally, jumped out of his skin as the man, angel, _thing_ seemed to read his mind. The voice crawled up his spine and settled like a dull knife in his shoulder sending a throb through his system. "Mortal weapons may not be able to kill you, but they hurt. And is that not the most lovely thing about being _Human_?" Michael passed a hand over John's shoulder blade, skimming down over the small of his back and then back up the word slipping through his lips like the most disgusting poison having somehow read John's mind. "The sensations, and emotions?" His fingers lingered slightly, as if he could feel the pulse of light in the scar at John's shoulder. "The pleasure? …The pain?" Nails dug into the fabric, and John would have flinched if it were anyone else. But he wasn't going to, not in front of Moriarty. Lucifer never blinked, couldn't blink, didn't flinch, didn't move. John may find the man, creature, demon, infuriating. But he'd learned something from him, or remembered why he was here. He was damn well stubborn. Moriarty smiled thinly, responding once again to John's thoughts with a cryptic: "Not yet, at least."

Moriarty had entered the warehouse from the same door as John, had passed his hand over his back, but Michael was the one moving past him now. He'd removed a thick dark coat, his suit jacket, and starched white button up resting over his arm, tie hanging loosely from his fingers. He looked vaguely put off by having his other hand free of his Lance, but he wasn't going to summon it. Not yet at least.

"Do not worry…" Michael whispered, a light smile on his lips, almost reassuring. "I just want to talk right now." It didn't help John relax, if anything it made him more on edge, his fingers twitching to reach for his tags. Before he could raise his hand completely the sound of thunder echoed in the large empty warehouse and pain shot through his hand. A strangled cry left his lips, bringing his injured hand to his chest, blood seeping through his fingers along with steam and smoke as the wound cauterized itself.

Michael rest his elbow on the Human's shoulder, his smooth cheek against his forearm, the other hand coming up to stroke down the Human's chest.

"Where are my manners? John, please say hello to Sebastian Moran. He is my pet, kind of like you were to Sherlock. But really I cannot believe I did not see it. It was rather obvious before that he was your pet." He sighed, giving that lopsided smile that John now associated with evil more than he associated Lucifer with it. "But enough about that. I have asked you here for a reason John, please do try and show your host some respect, hmm?"

John snarled, clutching the healed hand to his chest tighter. The blood still coated and slipped between his fingers, though the wound was gone. The pain wasn't. A dull throb in his veins and his bones where a bullet should have gone clean through. Michael spoke calm and in control, drawing John's attention back towards him, rather than the human that had wounded him. Which, despite trying to make Moran seem insignificant, Michael was only drawing attention to the obvious. But he did see when a threat had passed and when one had risen, and Moran was no longer of John's concern. He had to keep his eye on the Archangel now.

"What do you want?" It came out as more of an inhuman hiss then he intended. But Moran flinched, so John considers it a small victory. Michael sighed, patting Moran's cheek in what could have been comfort.

"I have asked you here, John, out of courtesy and respect. Do try and show the some restraint in your behavior." He pulled away from the human, moving closer to John. "This is my proposition. Either you back off and let me kill Sherlock or I will kill you, right here, and then kill Sherlock. Take your time, I have all day." He stuck his hands in the pockets of his suit pants, which looked very out of place with his gleaming chest plate and large gold wings.

"If you're so smart I'm sure you can guess what my answer is going to be."

"Yes, I can. I had just hoped you would rethink your decision." He lifted his right hand, dropping his shed clothes to the floor to allow his left hand to be free. John was faster though, his fingers already tangled in the metal of his chain having his hand still cradled to his chest from the bullet. The chain broke from his neck and he was moving before his wings had fully unleashed. Light erupted around Michael as the Lance fell into his grasp, but Moran's firing arm was already raised for another attack. Squeeze of the trigger and John sidestepped, the bullet whizzing past his cheek. His bone wings flashed and he snapped his arm, the motion erupting flames around the chain necklace in his hand. Hellfire dripped to the floor, and when he snapped his arm again it shot out like a whip, wrapping around Moran's wrist. With a hard yank the human skid across the floor feet barely keeping their purchase on the ground, a cry of pain as the fire seared and blistered his skin.

All this happened in a matter of seconds, before Michael was in the picture again. The Lance sliced through the whip, Holy power severing their hold on his pet's wrist. The human dropped to the floor, his skin turning black and cracked around the wound on his arm, the veins on his hand turning black and prominent. Michael was fast, and John knew he was powerful, but there were no Angelic warriors to back him up today. It was only the two of them. John had a chance.

Michael moved, leaving light behind him, Lance at the ready. But he didn't realize how fast John was, didn't take into account he'd dodge under faster than Michael could readjust the trajectory, bone wings flared and ready to strike. The Angel let go of the Lance long enough to bat John's wings to the side and land a powerful blow with the heel of his hand to the center of John's chest. Stumbling John readied for the next swing of golden Lance, backpedaling away and circling around. They danced like that, Michael's graceful and powerful strikes aimed for John's head, heart, wings. Anything to cause pain, to pierce through and hold him long enough to ripe his Eternal soul from his body and crush it. But for each attack he flung at John a defense was mounted, though not as agile or precise, but effective, making the Angel defend as often as he attacked.

The Angel growled, frustration clear in how his movements grew less elegant and more reckless. How could a lowly Fallen _possibly_ keep up with his every move?

"You seem to be slipping, Michael." John laughed, blocking a blow of the Lance and lashing out with his whip. "I thought wraith was below Angels."

"When in the name of the Lord, one may indulge in a sin or two." He growled, sliding to the side to avoid the crack, flames flickering against his cheek having missed their intended target. When next John's wings came into play, Michael threw the Lance aside, and in a single move grabbed one of his wings, nearly wrenching the bone from John's back as his left foot swung in a strong arch, smashing into John's temple and sending him reeling with his wing suddenly free again. Staggering under the weight of Holy power and the strength of the attack, John jerked his arm forward, the whip wrapping around Michael's throat and holding fast. The Archangel made a noise, something between a bird's scream and a human's cry of pain. His fingers clawed at the flames, burning the fingertips and dulling the glow of his skin. He snarled wrapping the whip around his arm and tugging. John fell forward, one knee connecting with a solid thud at Michael's feet. The Holy creature's free hand digging clawed fingers into John's scar sending pulses of Holy power. The whip flickered and dispersed, Michael's throat black and charred where the Hellfire gripped his skin. Pain radiated from the scar in John's shoulder, too much for him to handle, dropping him to his hands and knees.

"Think you are clever, hmm?" Michael's voice was scratchy and hoarse, cracks of light spreading through the wound healing the tainted skin. There would be a dark mark there, no matter how strong Michael was, he wouldn't be able to purge all the evil associated with Lucifer on his own. His free arm snaked under John's left wing and gripped his right, close to the joint at his shoulder blade. Fingers still gripping John's scar, Michael ducked under John's quivering bones, digging in a bit more with his left hand to send a strong pulse through John's corrupted system. Pressing a knee into John's back he forced the Fallen to the ground, retaining a firm grip of his wing and shoulder to keep him in line. His knees shifted to either side of John's hip, the sides of his shoes touching John's legs. "John, stop fighting it. Your final death is inevitable. Just accept it." The hand at John's wing released its hold, sliding nails down the bone, scrapping chips from the charred outside. Almost delicately he ran fingertips over the fissures and crevices in John's burned back. Tracing his way to just over John's spine, between quivering wings, Michael added just enough pressure to start crumbling the delicate skin. The Angel ran his fingers over a split close to the ridges of spine, rubbing his way between the edges of blackened skin. Adjusting to a higher position over John's prone body, Michael drove his fingers through John's back, the skin crumbling around his knuckles, blood so dark it was almost black slipping between broken skin and Michael's hand.

John's fingers scrapped against concrete stronger than a normal human's, crumbling the ground under his hands and shredding the skin at the tips. He tasted blood in his mouth, from where he bit through his lip, refusing to give Michael the satisfaction of hearing him scream. The Archangel's fingers wriggled against his ribs, pushing and rubbing against them judging the room between bone and clawing through the muscle. He made a soft noise in thought before shifting his hand, the muscles in his arm flexing. Rocking back on his heels, Michael used the weight of his body to plunge his hand deeper into John's back, cracking and breaking the bones around his wrist, severing their connection to the spine. A tremble ran through John's body in the place of a scream. Skin brushed against his fast beating heart and he swore it stopped beating the moment Michael's fingers wrapped around it.


	9. All the Queens Men

**Chapter Title:** All the Queen's Men  
><strong>Chapter Rating:<strong> M  
><strong>Chapter Length:<strong> 4,247 (gah, sorry for such a long chapter :/)

**Warning(s):** Violence and gore guys, and Lucifer doing questionable things? (even I'm not too sure what he's doing)

**Pairing/Characters:** John, Sherlock, Lucifer/Octavious shows up, Lestrade and some Sally and Anderson as well as a few unnamed police officers and unnamed victims, and some more Moriarty/Michael and Moran

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock, or Sherlock Holmes, they belong to Sir Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. Nevertheless, I do own the story and the descriptions of people in the story, I don't claim however to own the names of the people I'm describing.  
><strong>AN:** I am _SO_ sorry guys for the late update. I had a huge psych paper due at the beginning of the month and then this week is final's week so I've been stressing and crying and flailing over that so I haven't had time to post, but I made time because damn it's been like a month since I last posted, and that's just wrong of me. So here's the next chapter for you guys as reward for being so patient. I'm working on chapter 11 now, I wanted to finish it before posting chapter 9 but I wanted to make up for my long absence so here is this guys, again, sorry for the really long update. Anyway, hope you enjoy, drop a review and let me know what you think, what you liked, what needs to be fixed.

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><p>Sherlock leaned over the body, staring into the lifeless face, his pocket magnifying glass doing very little to help him. He'd never seen this before, had never read any medical books with an explanation of the condition the body was in. She was in her early thirties, a teacher, from the state of her blouse and chalk residue on the inside of her pockets. Primary from the discount on her shoes, but a recent wealthy boyfriend indicated by the new haircut and the diamond earrings. All irrelevant, all boring dull <em>people<em> related _things_ that even Lestrade probably saw first glance and John would have been able to understand.

But if that's all this had been, the dead body of some school teacher, the DI wouldn't have requested Sherlock with the infinitely enigmatic "you'll understand when you see for yourself." And he did understand, far more painfully obvious then if he'd seen whatever had killed her. God, right now more than ever did he wish he _had_. He knows with absolute certainty no one could have stopped it. Not Mycroft, or John, or Lucifer.

Her eyes were open, her expression devoid of emotion, her skin a colorless grey but not because she was dead. It was as if the life had been ripped from her, her soul dragged out with it leaving her an empty shell of a Human body. Her iris' were empty of color as well, a shade neither white nor grey. Her shirt fluttered slightly in a soft breeze, the tear down the front catching the air and flapping the unstained fabric around the gaping chasm nestled between her breasts. It was hollow and empty inside as if someone had reached into her chest, rummaged about and ripped everything but her skeletal structure from that small hole. Sherlock's logical mind told him, though, that when Molly completed the autopsy all organs would be accounted for except the heart. But he couldn't help the unease that was settling around him. Maybe it was her unseeing gaze, maybe it was the pigment of her flesh. Maybe it was the odd spider webbing around the cavity in her chest. Silvery web like tendrils that pulsed with a hidden light in the cells that had come in contact with whatever had ripped into her chest without leaving a single drop of blood on her body despite the cavernous wound.

They weren't as prominent as the ones received from John's encounter with the tip of a Holy Lance. But looking into that vacant part of her chest he had the memory of white feathered wings, an Angel drawing its arm back preparing to ripe the heart from John's chest. He wonders if John had been human if this is what would have become of him. A soulless broken vessel. Despite the noise Lestrade makes, Sherlock reaches forward, gloved fingers touching to her eyelids and sliding them closed. Donovan blinks at him, Anderson smirks, and the way Lestrade looks at him when he stands gives away what they are obviously thinking. But it isn't out of sentiment, or shock, or melancholy for the dead. No, it was out of discomfort and, dare he say, a shadow of dread. He couldn't stand those _eyes_. So empty and dull. So inhuman. A churning in his stomach as he turns to Lestrade, the idea of John looking like this body unsettling him more than the body itself.

"So?" Lestrade asks, a little less forceful than usual, a comforting gesture, but Sherlock really doesn't need it.

Instead of stating so, he snaps a picture of the body with his phone, sending it to John. "I need to speak with John." He leans forward snapping a picture of the void in her chest.

"What for, why didn't you just bring him along like always?" Anderson folds his arms over his chest, glaring at Sherlock. John is considerably nice to all of them, but really, it's in Anderson's job description to check over the body, not that he does a good job at it. But he's paid for it, not Sherlock or anyone else, but him. With a defeated sigh, Sherlock looks to Anderson with pity.

"Isn't it obvious? I am no medical professional, despite my extensive research and knowledge. John, however, has the necessary skills and insight. Besides I'm sure he will have more to say on this then I." He knelt again, watching the pulse in the spider tendrils around the wound.

"Ahh, so even the great Sherlock Holmes can't make heads or tails of this, eh?" The man looked far more smug than he had any right to, and Sherlock knew the poor sod couldn't help that he was so pathetically stupid.

"I have at least two hypotheses, which is two more than you could come up with that tiny brain of yours alone. But John will be able to confirm one or both of these scenarios." Thinking of John, he hadn't responded to Sherlock's text yet. Odd. It had been about three minutes give or take twenty seconds. If John really was at the surgery he'd have responded at least two minutes ago stating he was with a patient. If he were at home, he'd have answered immediately that he was hailing a cab. John only ever didn't respond when he was with Mycroft, in danger, or taking a shower. He never took a shower at this time of day, and Mycroft would have irritated Sherlock with a case before resorting to kidnapping or (dare he try) asking John, so danger seemed like the highest possibility at this time. He stood once more just as a scream ripped through the bustling crowd of constables. Making his way over as quickly as the mass of bewildered people allowed, with Lestrade and Anderson at his heels, they found Donovan comforting a shaking female officer. The girl was clutching at the Sergeant like her life depended on it, sobbing hysterically into the darker skinned woman's shoulder.

Sherlock pushed past the two to make his way to the rail of the bridge. Any color that had been in his face, from the cold or natural pigment felt as if it washed away with the river. The tide had pulled out, revealing the banks. The banks and the bodies. Hundreds of them washed up on the rocky edges of the river. Men in ties or jeans, dressed for a day at the office or out to the shops, eyes soullessly peering up at the clouded sky. Women in their heels or t-shirts, out for a coffee break or on a morning walk, gaping holes in their chests. Children on their way to school, or cradled in their mother's arms, or hands gripped in their father's their skin dull and sapped of existence.

"Dear god." Lestrade whispered behind him. Sherlock gripped the rail under his fingers tightly, turning the knuckles white with anger or shock, or maybe to keep from the anxiety lurching his stomach, even he wasn't sure.

"God has nothing to do with this." Sherlock gritted out turning away from the scene and texting Mycroft. _But he might as well have,_ he left unsaid. No need to confuse the poor idiotic detective with something so blatantly satanic from an atheist man. Not that what he had said was any better, but Lestrade couldn't have asked if he wanted to. Just as the 'send' on his text had been jabbed Lestrade's phone rang. He picked it up and instantly his face twisted and he tossed the contraption at Sherlock who barely had time to catch it.

"For you." He stood impatiently close, wanting to know the details but not wishing to talk to the man on the other end of the wire.

"_Oh sweety, you rang?_" A voice soothed from the small speaker. There was a fiery twinge to the voice Sherlock had come to know as Octavious'.

"Octavious, _where_ is John?"

"_Why, Sherlock, it almost sounds like you're worried about the dear boy! And here I thought you had faith in the boy's power._" Sherlock rolled his eyes, never going to admit to such feelings. A muffled scream came from somewhere on Octavious' end, only to be quieted by the sound of a whip cracking and flesh tearing. "_You did catch me at a rather off time dearest. New Unholy soul to train, you see._"

"Time is an abstract where you are, and your business is not my concern. John is, and if he's with Michael-"

A sharp static rush filled his ears. "_Shush, don't be obscene!_" He hissed at Sherlock but from the way he snarled he could have easily been shushing himself. It didn't seem to matter which, seeing as it had the desired effect. The line went quiet. There was a long stretch before his voice filled Sherlock's ear again, as if he were standing with the detective then who knows where in the world (or underworld) he actually was. "_John accepted Michael's invitation. Why would he so soon? Dear me, he can be so slow sometimes…_" The name stung Sherlock's nerves as Octavious' words filtered into background noise. His body was alight in a rush, in a need to run. Whether to or away from wherever Michael was, he couldn't be sure.

"_Sherlock, my darling boy? Sherlock. What do you think you are doing? Sherlock! Respond to me __**now**__._" He hadn't realized his feet were moving, until Lucifer's voice forced him to stop. Lestrade wasn't too far behind, face twisted in confusion from what he could hear of Sherlock's side of the conversation.

"What have you sent John into?"

"_Nothing he wasn't expecting or prepared to face._"

"_Octavious_…" Sherlock warned. A melodramatic sigh crackled from the phone, whether distorted by the phone or Octavious Sherlock didn't care.

"_Sherlock, you are his only priority, your life is all that matters to him. He marched in there knowing full well he could die today. Do not go chasing after him without knowing what you are getting into._"

"Moriarty is nothing new, Octavious. He's more human than he likes to think. His actions prove it." There was a long, thoughtful pause from the other end.

"Oh." Octavious was light and airy, almost breathless in euphoria. "Oh, Sherlock._ I could kiss you. That, I can work with that. I'll send you a picture of the location the two of them are at, and I'll meet you there._" Sherlock tossed Lestrade's phone over his shoulder before Octavious even finished hanging up and was moving towards the DI's vehicle.

-v-v-

A pain was blossoming in his chest, just from the touch of Holy power against his heart. The muscle quivered in the gentle grasp Michael's hand had on the muscle. John could feel the walls of his heart constricted by the small cage of Holy flesh and bone. He was immobilized with pain, from his shoulder, his back, his heart. Everything hurt.

"Is there anything that you would like me to tell Sherlock before I kill him? I am not so cold hearted as to leave you without final words." John felt he was going to be sick, he was afraid of pulling his teeth from his lip to speak only to empty blood and bile onto the floor. Wouldn't be a very frightening sight, unless Michael's shoes were close by, but that would just get him killed sooner. At some point Moran had stood, injured wrist cradled to his chest. John could tell by his breathing, it was painful but the human was ex-military so something like this wasn't going to keep him from leaving the side of the Archangel. Michael shifted over John bringing the Fallen back to the problem and the pain. The arm twisted slightly into a more comfortable position, more comfortable for Michael that is. Another jolt of pain went through John's system as his broken ribs moved aside for the Angel's arm.

When he didn't respond, Michael sighed. Like winds through leaves or a love lost or relief that a long war was over. Fingers clutched at his heart, a palm pressing into his shoulder to gain the proper leverage to start pulling. Muscles and veins stretched, straining to keep themselves together, he could practically hear the arteries groaning in discomfort. The air shifted somewhere close by, but John's senses were going haywire, he couldn't tell which way was up anymore let alone what that wiggling sensation somewhere in his conscious was.

Whatever it was it kept Michael from ripping the Fallen heart from his chest. In fact it kept him from moving at all. A pair of rather nice Italian leather shoes came into John's blurred view, and despite his skewed perception he knew those shoes could only look good on someone of Octavious' position.

"Michael, dear brother mine, it's been so long. Why don't you crawl out of the mud you've dragged yourself through and give me a hug?" His voice was silk and velvet and clouds to John's ears, his body relaxing at the all too familiar presence. The tension seemed to seep out his blood and permeate into Michael's skin, his body stiffened painfully over John. Octavious leaned closer, and under his breath whispered to Michael, in a lover's croon, or in a killers smile. "One may indulge in a sin or two. Trust me, I know that line. And you are enjoying this far more then you should, even if it _is_ in the Lord's name." He straightened, rocking back on expensive heels and no doubt looking down his nose at Michael where he kneeled in the dirt and John's blood. "Wraith, I understand. Pride, that I get too. But why the Envy? What could one so high and mighty possibly hold in spite? And what's this Greed I smell? Do you really think that you can covet all of God's love with this mission? Wait!" He clicks his shoes back to the ground, a hand to his lips tongue darting out to lick the tips of fingers and he shudders with a soft moan. "Is that… _oh, Michael_. Is that Lust I taste? What naughty deeds have you committed? So much sin in so little time. What's next, Sloth? Gluttony? Oh dear me, you are just working your way up the list, aren't you?" The way his voice echoed in the empty building stated that Octavious had won, won this battle at least.

And even if he hadn't, Octavious had been spending years honing his powers, and gaining new ones, on par to be God's own adversary, Michael was no longer on the same level as Lucifer. The hold on John's heart had loosened drastically, to the point where the Holy Pulse that had crippled him had ebbed into a dull ache. Using the distraction to his advantage John concentrated on the Hellfire that kept his heart pumping, and lay quiet in his blood. It grew boiling hot and oozed out his veins surrounding Michael's arm where it had penetrated his back. The Angel was off him in a second, flicking the blood from his arm before it could burn.

"You were lucky this time, _brother_." He practically ripped the word from his mouth and ground it to dust with how much hatred was concentrated into just that one word. "My Lord has only granted me a sliver of my full strength while roaming in a human body. To contain all my power in one vessel could destroy it. But you should know something about that. Your face is already crumbling." Octavious just smiled at Michael, simple and almost pitying, a few flakes of his skin dissipating into the air around him. "Next time, your little pet will not be so lucky, and neither will that disgusting bug you call a son."

"Michael, you really shouldn't be so rude." Octavious took a step back, dissipating into ash, only to reform his body behind Moran. His arm wrapped around the man's waist digging claws into his hip. His free hand snaked up forcing the human's head back, nails scrapping the delicate skin. "Ah, I can taste it much clearer now. Is this him? The one your Lust has found root in?" He made a tsking noise, like a parent disciplining a child. "Michael, didn't Father teach you anything? Altering a human's life, killing or letting them live, was alright as long as we didn't interfere with the course of life. And look what you've done, taken a human lover. And a sinner at that. He's killed people, because you've asked. Murdered innocent human's, stained his hands red, and look what you've let happen to him." He held up Moran's corrupted hand. "You know, if he dies, his soul is mine." He whispered, his teeth scrapping over the human's left ear, fingers tightening around his throat eliciting a gasp from Moran, lashes fluttering as he gazed at Michael through them.

A flash of light and fire, ash settling amongst the concrete and shattered pieces of light. Michael had Octavious' hand in a harsh grasp, would have snapped the wrist bones like twigs if this were an average Angel's wrist. The glint of a dagger at the Archangel's throat would have been of little concern, but the blade was a blood red Obsidian, a warm heat somewhere in the center radiating a strong demonic aura. Neither moved for several minutes still as statues, fighting an internal battle of power and wits. Octavious' wrist began to crumble and sizzle from the prolonged exposure to Holy power, while the slightest edge of blade touched to Michael's throat, turning the skin surrounding it black. Michael's hand shook before he dropped the other's wrist, jumping back and grabbing Moran by the waist and dragging him close, a protective display if there ever was one. The low warning growl wasn't much help for his case either.

"I still have a mission, your son will die, Lucifer. Just accept it."

"No way in Hell is that going to happen."

With a powerful flap of his golden wings, Michael vanished into light and feathers, leaving nothing but the clothes he'd shed earlier as proof he'd been there.

"Next time, warn me before you go off to meet with Michael. You'd almost think you actually wanted to die." Octavious flopped down next to John, legs sprawled in front of him and leaning back on his hands. He blew some smoke from between his lips, the side of his face was beginning to fall apart more rapidly. "But then again, I guess you were hoping you could reason with him, huh?" Dusty fingers brushed through his ash blonde hair, coating it with dirt but still soothing John of his pains. "Unfortunately for you, Sherlock is almost here, I'll meet you at the flat, yea? Fix up that gap in you, and those tags." Though reluctant, he stood quickly, brushing off his pants and fiddling with his cufflinks. "It's still daylight, so be careful about being seen." If John had been able to muster the energy, he'd have questioned why Octavious didn't just poof them both back to the flat. But at the moment he was tired and in pain, and really, just wanted a cup of tea and sleep.

He was lucky that Octavious wasn't closer, having bits of obsidian and ash in his wound didn't sound pleasant at all. His arms shook as he tried to push himself into a sitting position, but all it did was help him in toppling onto his side. The door behind him creaked, hesitant footsteps moved closer. Familiar footsteps, in spite of their lack of excitement at the endeavor. He hadn't realized his eyes had closed until a gloved fingers brushed his neck, over his pulse. Opening his eyes was harder than closing them had been. Sherlock was crouched next to him, a clinical eye running over the line of his arm and legs, over the wrinkles in his jacket and jeans, the mud on his shoes, the blood on the floor.

"I'm gonna need your coat." John said in greeting, turning his palm up to show the broken chain being unable to move his wings and unsettle the ash that was camouflaging them. Sherlock nodded in understanding but still didn't speak. He fingered the hairs at the base of John's skull, they were a bit longer since when he first arrived on Earth. It was nice to know his body was only slightly affected by the passage of time, even if he was never going to get any older. The thought had him speaking one that hadn't fully formed yet before it was already out his mouth. "Where's Lestrade?" Sherlock shifted, helping John sit up when he motioned for him to. He groaned, feeling horribly sick as blood sloshed around and out the hole in his back. When he swayed, Sherlock pulled him close, avoiding the void in the Fallen's back and letting his head rest against his thin chest. He stayed as still as possible while Sherlock slide free of his coat and wrapped it around John's shoulders, covering his wings and the wound in his back.

"Securing the area around the building, police work. We have ten minutes in which to leave. Lestrade, in his inevitable blindness may have missed a cab that conveniently decided to wait behind the building." He spoke quietly, helping John to stand. "I think he knows." He sounded uncertain, and slightly annoyed that he was. John chuckled into his jacket, letting the lanky detective wrap an arm around his waist and begin slowly walking him to a door on the other side of the warehouse. "However, I don't think he _knows_." John wasn't sure exactly what Sherlock meant, but he'd ask. Later, he'd ask later. He often didn't know what Sherlock was saying.

The cabbie didn't look back at them as they climbed in, and he didn't ask their destination. Nor did he seem to pay attention when Sherlock forced John to lie down, despite the cramped space and the way it twisted his body. It still felt like a relief on his wary limbs and slow mind. Structures flashed by, London building and falling apart as they drove past. He blinked, resting his eyes for just a moment lasting only seconds (or hours or days) and for a moment Earth seemed as timeless as Hell. Baker Street was inching past them, and 221 was rolling to a stop. Sherlock tossed some money the driver's way, checking the street was empty before bustling John inside, up the stairs before Mrs. Hudson could even make it to her door, and into the sitting room. Letting John fall onto the couch he closed both doors leading into the flat, locking each before returning to where he'd left John. Octavious had appeared from some deep corner, or maybe the fireplace (or maybe he had been there the whole time but both had missed him in their hurry), to seat himself at the coffee table in front of John.

"I apologize for cutting it so close." He sighed quietly, helping John shed Sherlock's coat, his own Jacket and ruined shirt. John shifted, resting his right shoulder against the back of the sofa. A gentle hand moved his left wing, a body sliding under and settling behind him. Sherlock shifted somewhere to the left of him as Octavious inspected the wound up close. John didn't need to see the detective's face to know he had reacted in some way, just by the shift in the pace of his heartbeat. Fingers touched the edge of the gap, skin crumbling under their touch. "This is a lot worse than I thought. He did a number on you." He almost sounded upset, or maybe sympathetic. Fingers touched a collapsing part of his wing, smoothing over and correcting the indents that Michael had left as souvenirs.

"I'm sorry John, this is going to hurt." Was his only warning before fingers plunged into his back. His own clawed hands dug into the cushions, ripping at the fabric as his teeth found purchase in his lip once more. It somehow hurt more than when Michael had first broken through. A high pitched whimper made its way through his throat as fingers moved and adjusted his broken ribs, reconnecting them to his spine with what felt like hot brands. He hung his head, touching his forehead to the back of the couch as Octavious continued fusing muscle and bone together before pulling black stained fingers from the wound, healing flesh, suturing the skin together. In between his shoulder blades, surrounded by black crumbling skin was now a patch of smooth black, surrounded by gently pulsing white, similar to the scar tissue at his shoulder, but the webbing was much thinner, more fine and delicate, running and blending into fissures and crevices in the charred crumbling skin. A final testament to what occurred at that warehouse.

It wasn't till fingers gently pulled the chain from his grasp that John noticed Octavious was done healing his wound. Metal hissed as it merged together once more. Sherlock finally stepped forward, extracting the tags from the hands of his father. John could hear the metal catch dips and crevices of Sherlock's fingerprints as his fingers ran over the newly mended chain. Octavious made some sort of noise and moved back to sit at the coffee table, sucking on his blood stained fingers in an absent minded way, as if his hand was coated in honey rather than blood. Gentle fingers touched John's shoulder in warning as Sherlock dropped the tags around John's neck. He was so exhausted he barely felt the pain of his wings twisting into the human flesh of his back, or the arm that slipped around his waist and dragged him to his feet. Octavious had removed any trace of John's blood from his fingers, having found interest in the cold cup of tea John had left him earlier, sipping at it delicately, moving it aside after every sip to avoid getting ash in his drink. With a nod in Octavious' direction as a form of dismissal, Sherlock unlocked the door and lead John to his bedroom. Up the stairs, and between the soft, warm, comforting covers. It took him a moment to catch up with the events. He was stuck somewhere, between the warehouse and 221B he thinks. Heat radiated over his back and from his back as Sherlock lay across his flesh, fingers tracing the new scar tissue in slow curious patterns. And from somewhere in the dark, before he closed his eyes to sleep, he heard a whispered, quivering voice.

"Go to sleep John."


	10. The Company Which You Keep

**Chapter Title:** The Company Which You Keep  
><strong>Chapter Rating:<strong> M  
><strong>Chapter Length:<strong> 3,859

**Warning(s):** Use of actual dialogue from the episode The Hound of Baskerville so umm if you're reading this for some reason and haven't seen the second season, spoilers? Um other than that just Lestrade guessing at things, Sherlock being stupid, and my crap writing?

**Pairing/Characters:** John, Sherlock, Lucifer/Octavious shows up, Lestrade, Henry Knight and Dr. Frankland, as well as mentions of Mycroft and probably some other people I don't care to go looking for names of at the moment (I'm horrible, I know).

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock, or Sherlock Holmes, they belong to Sir Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. Nevertheless, I do own the story and the descriptions of people in the story, I don't claim however to own the names of the people I'm describing.  
><strong>AN:** I really don't have an excuse this time around for not posting a new chapter. I should have done this ages ago but I have been having such a slow run with this story up till now. I really got into the arc that comes after the Hounds Arc which is what we are on now. I didn't particularly like this one which is probably why I've held off on it, but I want to get on with the new arc I'm working on and I can't believe I've waited this long to update for you guys. As an "I'm sorry please forgive me" gift tomorrow between classes I'll post chapter 11 as well. Because it needs to happen and might as well get the Hounds arc out into public view. I'll also drop a link to my tumblr account as well as my AO3 account at the beginning of chapter 11 for any of those interested in following me on tumblr, or checking out Hellfire on AO3. I occasionally post my own art on tumblr as well, David commissioned an artist to draw characters from Hellfire as my Christmas gift so I'll be posting images of those up once I get them which should be in January some time. And let me tell you, she is amazing and has really nailed the image that I've had of most of them. Well, without further comment, hope you enjoy, drop a review and let me know what you think, what you liked, what needs to be fixed.

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><p>Sherlock had, at some point, fallen asleep within the time John had laid with him. When the sun rose the next morning John stumbled from the bed, leaving the detective to get much needed sleep. Under the sheets the tall man curled in on himself, seeking the burning heat John had taken with him. At the bottom of the stairs John stopped. Someone was in the living room, though the door was mostly closed and he couldn't see who, he could sense them beyond the wood. He reached his senses a bit further, feeling for the body to get an idea of what they were before entering. There was no Holy light surrounding them, but no dark aura. They were completely and ordinarily human. But if John had learned anything on this stint to Earth it was that even humans can be surprisingly dangerous. Staying in the shadows he pushed the door wide and let it creak open. Lestrade was lounged out on the couch, one of Mrs. Hudson's teacups on his knee and a few case files spread on the coffee table and one in the hand not curled around the stem of his cup.<p>

"Glad to see you alive." Lestrade said to the open room before him, giving John a side long look as he sipped at the steaming cup. "There was so much blood, I thought we were going to have to demand Sherlock hand over your body." He leaned across the space in front of him, resting his cup on the saucer that was half hidden under a folder of papers. He turned to John completely, resting his arm against the back of the couch and pulling his leg up to cross his ankle over his knee. He gave John a once over with narrowed eyes. In the glare of the morning sun John was half shrouded in shadows from where he stood.

"It wasn't mine." John tried, it sounded confident enough but Lestrade snorted, readjusting his position into something more comfortable.

"Bollocks. We both know when that sample comes back from the labs it's gonna be yours." John was silent and Lestrade sighed. "Look, I don't know what exactly is going on. But I'm a detective John, I know when Sherlock is hiding something from me. And I thought out of the two of you, you'd tell me when something is up." John didn't answer, but he didn't move either , a chill running down John's spine. The silence was tense, and was making Lestrade uncomfortable. Another sigh issued from the overworked DI as he sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "John, you know you can trust me." And the look he gave John was so exhausted and tired John almost felt like telling him. But the bones under his skin and the new glowing scar on his back made their protest then, and he's sure his eyes flashed orange because Lestrade was off the couch and staring wide eyed at John. Intent and uncertain, trying to figure out if it was a trick of the early light or real, he smiled at the suddenly tentative Yarder and moved into the kitchen through the door in the hall to start some breakfast and the kettle. His favorite cup was chipped, he noticed, thumbing the cracked piece, listening to Lestrade's heart rate return to normal obviously deciding it was a trick of the light. As he filled his mug with water he felt the chill run over his spine again. Nearly dropping his mug, John realized he was still wearing the ruined remains of his jumper from yesterday, throwing it under the table he snatched one off the back of a kitchen chair, having left it there earlier in the week when Sherlock spilled coffee on it. When he entered the living space Lestrade, having settled himself back on the couch, case file still in hand, raised an eyebrow at the change in jumper but didn't say anything on that subject.

"And what about all this mess then?" Lestrade tossed a picture onto the table as John drew closer. When he picked up the image he saw the pile of clothes Moriarty left. Lestrade tossed another one down and this one was a pile of crushed stone, rulers set around it for size relation. "Guess you're going to tell me it's nothing too. What's going on John?" Sipping at his own scalding drink, John handed the pictures back. He could tell Lestrade, get laughed at, and being insisted at that there had to be some logical explanation, and then of course he'd have to show off his wings and then Octavious would show up and probably molest the DI if yesterday had been anything to go off on Lucifer's thought of the human. And that would _involve_ Greg, and really, that would just paint a larger target on the back of his head than there already was. Best keep it safe. He opened his mouth to speak when Sherlock had run through the door snatching up the pictures.

"A new case for me?" He didn't sound the least bit tired which must have been a special gift of his, but it gave John time to slip away and send a message to Mycroft. And if the British Government couldn't get the DI out of the flat, he fortunately had a card to contact the King of Hell with. John heard Sherlock scoff from the other room and tell Lestrade the case was boring and before the inspector could argue his phone rang and he was forced to gather his papers and rush out of 221B.

It wasn't until later, week or two (John is never sure when it comes to time) that he wished he would have said something to Lestrade sooner. It wasn't really like it would have changed anything, everyone else of importance knew already, and it might have helped Lestrade cope a bit better, if nothing else.

Baskerville was a disaster, to say the least. He could feel the excitement rolling off Sherlock's shoulders, causing his own body to tense. Whenever the detective was this excited something dangerous and bad, and usually involving Michael occurred. And he really didn't need that, not now. Not in front of all these people. He may have helped Sherlock get into the complex but it didn't mean he approved. He tried to not pay too close attention to his surroundings, only keeping a close eye on the people, sensing their power, focusing on their humanity. He let Sherlock do the talking, and kept to himself. There was something about the complex that made him uncomfortable, made him weary, but with all the strange smells and of chemicals and cleaners he couldn't pinpoint what it was. He was extremely grateful for Dr. Frankland's help in escaping Baskerville without getting caught. From there he thought things were going to be a bit smoother. A quick walk through the moors at night, disprove the hound, return to the inn for a fitful night sleep, go back to London the next day and continue Sherlock's bored streak.

Or that was John's plan, but he wasn't a genius, and he didn't have the power of clairvoyance like a few of the Angel's did. And Sherlock had the ability to lose John at will. He should have ignored the light to begin with, it wasn't a lead, and Sherlock probably knew it, which is why he ignored it. Or maybe for once John had seen something Sherlock had missed and he should just feel proud of that fact. But despite everything Sherlock was his charge and he shouldn't have left him alone with an ordinary human, or expected Sherlock to stop when John had fallen behind. He'd been wandering on his own when he heard the sound. He thinks he understands a bit, in hindsight, what he'd heard but it still confused and shocked him then.

The sound of howling, overlaying the sweet music of Heaven's trumpet's calling.

He doesn't remember hearing the sound stop, or even knowing which direction the sound came from, but he does know his heart was pounding in his ears. And Hellfire gathering in the veins of his palms, ready to tear any creature of Heaven apart that dared touch Sherlock as his feet started carrying him as fast as they could towards the detective. He almost grabbed Sherlock and forcefully shook him when he saw the man with Henry trailing closely behind. Sherlock rushed past him, ignoring his questioning looks and the annoyance that was radiating from his skin. He continued brushing him off all the way back to town and with a flick of his hand told John to walk the shaken lad home. He'd have argued insistently, if the kid didn't look so scared. With a gentle grasp that any good doctor (no matter the time period) knew how to accomplish, John led Henry home by his elbow.

The poor boy was so traumatized that he wondered if the sleep aids he was going to give him would even work. He still sat with him, handed them to him, and watched him chase them down with the glass of water he'd passed over. He waited until Henry's eyes began stooping with fatigue before patting his shoulder and leaving to find Sherlock.

At the small dining room leading in from the pub, Sherlock had sat himself at the fire and was staring into the blazing embers. To accomplish what, John wasn't sure. There was something in the tremble of Sherlock's body, the thrumming tension that the Fallen could tell wasn't the normal excitement that ran through the detectives veins. It was adrenaline alright, but the same adrenaline that John had felt flow through his once human veins a century ago when faced with your own near death. It could get to a man. So he started calm and slow, thinking that a rational thinking would draw Sherlock from his quivering shell. But he was claiming fear, and John knew, from every time he'd run out with Sherlock that a Holmes did not show fear, let alone feel it. Sherlock had faced Moriarty, had survived Michael, sat in the same room as Lucifer, learned he was more than just a man, and ran with a Fallen every day, it took a lot to rattle Sherlock's cage.

"Just take it easy. You've been pretty… wired lately." He tried to keep quiet, and gentle, choosing his words with the utmost care. He'd never encountered Sherlock showing this much emotion, never, not even the one night they had shared raw and open with each other, he'd never been so forthcoming with his thoughts or feelings. "You know you have. I think, you just got yourself a bit worked up." He'd obviously said something wrong, because Sherlock jumped on it immediately.

"Worked… up?" John clenched his fists and pursed his lips, he tried an excuse instead, which was probably a worse idea.

"It was dark and…"

"Me? There's nothing _wrong_ with me." John shook his head, he knew this wasn't going to work, he really should have stopped himself from trying. He was more stubborn then an old dog, John should have waited till morning to deal with the overly emotional, and yet somehow lacking, detective.

"Sherlock?" He tried, reaching for the other man, touching his arm gently, hoping to stop this before it got farther out of hand. Maybe if he suggested him to go lie down, anything to help his partner. "Sherlock-"

"There is nothing wrong with _me_, do you understand!?" He heard the dining room go quiet, the flames in the fireplace having flared in response to Sherlock's anger. "You want me to prove it, yes?" He shook John's hand from his arm as he quickly flew into a rambling rant, filling in John's part with a mocking tone that he should have felt more offended at. But watching his friend, and charge fly apart at the seams actually scared him more then it hurt him to be insulted. When it had died down, and he was no longer snarling at John like a wounded tiger, John shifted in his seat.

"Yea…" He cleared his throat, unable to keep from moving in the chair he was occupying. "Ok… ok…" He paused, taking a breath to calm himself. "Why don't we go sleep on it, yea?" Sherlock made a scornful noise, a sneer crossing his face as he looked away. "Sherlock…" John sighed. "I just want to make sure you're alright…"

"Yes, I'm alright, _John_." He snapped. "Congratulations on a job well done, now you can rest better knowing you did a great service to my father."

"Of course…" He should have let it be, should have let it go. But Sherlock had actually managed to wound him, and he couldn't help but bite out: "You know, why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend."

"I don't have _friends_."

"No…" He shouldn't have let it get to him, but it was Sherlock, and as much as John tried he cared about the other's opinion. "Guess not."

The fresh air was sharp in his lungs, chilled and stinging for reasons he couldn't explain. He glanced up at the stars and was sure that if Michael were watching right now he'd be laughing. Their room was at the inn so it's not like he was going to turn around and try and sleep his frustration off. Glancing off towards the hills the light he had seen the other night was visible from where he stood. Couldn't hurt to check it out.

Climbing the hill to find the source of the light was long and pointless, and more than a little disturbing. His stomach rolled. There was seriously something wrong with everyone who lived around here. He sighed, defeated, and feeling rather stupid. He wasn't a Sherlock, or a Mycroft, or a genius, of course the light had meant nothing. What had he been thinking? And wondering off so far from his charge after promising Lucifer (and seeing as the last time he wandered off on his own had ended so well). Even if he had a… he wasn't really sure what it was, but it still didn't give him good enough reason to leave the Holmes' unprotected. He groaned and began walking back to the inn. The sound of his phone distracted him a little from berating himself further, bringing back a little frustration from the text.

_Henry's therapist currently in Cross Keys Pub_

_S_

John glared at the screen, punching back a response.

_SO?_

He didn't bother putting his phone away, knowing Sherlock would respond with lightning reflexes.

_Interview her?_

_WHY SHOULD I?_

If asked, he'll say he went because she was pretty and seemed like, from one doctor to another, an interesting conversationalist. In truth he went because he couldn't say no to Sherlock, and never would be able to. Even if Sherlock wasn't his charge, he'd have gone, because it would make the detective happy.

Even so, it's not like it helped any, he didn't get much information out of her, and it didn't help that Dr. Frankland had slid in and made it off like him and Sherlock were a couple. Which wasn't entirely false. But it wasn't necessarily true, either. John didn't really know what they were. Not friends, obviously.

He didn't see Sherlock that night, not that he expected to, or necessarily wanted to after their domestic, but he was supposed to keep an eye on him, and not even knowing where he was at the current time meant he wasn't really doing a bang up job.

It was a small town, with a lovely little cathedral, and a quiet cemetery, which was on the way from Henry's mansion to the center of town, so he was bound to run into Sherlock at a decent time if he just waited. And John was always a patient man, chiefly with Sherlock. Plus, he'd woken to the unusual text of: _Dearest John, Cemetery, 11:30 sharp, dress nice, see you there OV6_. When he'd arrived, at 11:29, he'd expected something more sinister, then the slight breeze and fluffy clouds over head, and the almost uneasy comfort that fell around him being so close to the dead. He'd wandered among the crumbling, carved, tablets and whispers of long lost souls. Close to one of doors was a monolith with a row of decent sized steps, perfect for sitting and waiting. Perching upon the second one he glanced at his phone. He didn't have to wait long. Despite the button up, and the lightweight jacket, he could feel the heat of the hand as it slid up his spine, circling around the spot over his new scar, before smoothing its way back down over the bones of one of his wings.

"It's quite nice out here, isn't it? Lovely scenery, and the smells…" A deep breath was inhaled as Octavious leaned his side against John, laying his head on the Fallen's shoulder. "So fresh, I can't even smell the after effects of death here. But enough about nature, my skin is starting to burn being on such hallowed ground." He began turning his head to look at Octavious, but the man gently turned John's head away. "No darling, I am _not_ fit for viewing. Important things need to be discussed. I came to warn you, this isn't your typical mystery, and definitely not your typical _dog_. I don't care what it's about, or what you have to do, but get back in Sherlock's good graces, he can't be running around on his own anymore. It's too dangerous right now, Michael is about, and I can't pinpoint where. So please, it's not time for Sherlock to die, it can't happen by any supernatural hand, you understand?"

John nodded, preparing to speak, but a hand ran over his lips, silencing him. "Shush, my dear, we can't talk right now, they are looking for me. I'll be in contact soon." He whispered into the skin at John's jaw before his hands left John's face, and the heat left John's side. When he turned a small pile of dirt lay on the ground behind his seat.

The gate would catch his attention only minutes later

"So… you, uh, get anywhere with that Morse code?" No formal greeting, no need for it. They both knew it was somehow going to lead into some form of apology, even if it didn't sound as such. He stood from his seated position, standing awkwardly in front of the detective.

"Nah." John looked away, shaking his head slightly, wanting to forget the whole business he pulled away from Sherlock, embarrassed over his mistake, and still rather frustrated at the detective.

Sherlock was following him for once, close on his heels, showing off his capacity to remember even under stress.

" A…" He repeated it again, slower, as if tasting the word, trying to figure out the meaning from the way the letters sounded alone.

"Nothing, look, forget it, I thought I was onto something, I wasn't." He hid his blush by keeping at his steady fast pace.

"Sure?"

"Yea"

"How about the therapist, did you get anywhere with her?" It was obvious now that he was desperate to keep the conversation going on a path that would keep John responding.

"No." Sighing to himself he slowed minutely, not enough for Sherlock to say anything about it, or to interpret as something it wasn't.

"Too bad, did you get any information?" One could almost hear the hint of a smirk on his lips and John had to snicker back. How could someone so intelligent not realize that John was only letting Sherlock continue talking to him because he didn't fancy the woman he'll forever say he was forced to talk to? That he fancied the man that made him interrogate her over dinner.

"Hmm, you're being funny now."

"Thought I might break the ice, a bit…" Awkward and slightly unsure, he wanted John to tell him if he was socially doing alright, but he couldn't when it was John he was trying to entice rather than a Yarder or a victim's family member.

"Funny doesn't suit you." He tried to keep it sounding less fond, but he was starting to lose his edge, his frustration with Sherlock. It was hard to stay angry with the man, he felt his wings shift as if to remind him why he was here, not to get sidetracked by emotions.

"John."

"It's fine." And really it was, if he as honest he hadn't been upset since last night.

His hand was warm on John's arm when he tugged him back. "Wait. What happened last night? Something happened to me, something I've not really experienced before."

"Yes, you said fear, you got scared." He tried for casual, to let Sherlock really know it was ok.

"No, no no, it was more than that John, it was doubt, I felt doubt, always being able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night."

"You can't actually believe that you saw some kind of beast." _You've witnessed Angels and Devils, you can't possibly be scared of this_ need not be said.

"No, I can't believe that, but I did see it, so the question is 'how, _how?'_ Is this one of heaven's tricks? Or is this something else?" He looked upon John intently, eyes strong and determined, his hand gentling its touch, rubbing the fabric of the sleeve between his fingers.

"Yes," he had to look away, to stop Sherlock from looking at him. "Yea right, good, so you got something to go on then, good luck with that." He knew for sure the detective was finally down to what he really wanted to say and let himself start walking away.

"Listen," John smiled at being right, but schooled his face to turn and look at Sherlock. "What I said before John, I meant it, you aren't my friend, I don't have any." He stopped, rolling the words around his head several times before saying softer "I have something more." He was confident and resolute and he wanted John, the fallen could taste the change in the air.

"Right." He snorted, keeping in his laugh as he turned away. Couldn't let Sherlock know how giddy the words had made him. He'd just played the detective, and he really couldn't let the egoist know.

"John? John! You are amazing, you are fantastic!"

"Yes, alright, don't have to overdo it." He smiled softly at the sounds of footsteps catching up to him.

Not that it was going especially well before, but it seems Sherlock apologizing does weird things to the universe and it decided to fall apart on them. Lady Fate must be in league with the powers of Heaven. At least that's what it felt like. Lestrade showed up, the one place he _shouldn't be_, not with some unknown creature out to eat Sherlock for breakfast, and probably anyone in the general vicinity of the human.

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><p><em>AN: Thanks for reading everyone! Sorry again about the late post and if you have reviewed the story I'm sorry it's taken me so long to acknowledge you. Once I post chapter 11 with a link to my tumblr, feel free to follow me there and bug me. I'm on there almost everyday so I'll see it more often. Thanks for any reviews you might leave me or even just fav's! You guys are amazingly patient and I'm sorry I suck so bad at this whole posting business. Hope everyone has a great day, and I'll be talkin to ya'll in a bit!_


	11. Born of Fire

**Chapter Title:** Born of Fire  
><strong>Chapter Rating:<strong> M  
><strong>Chapter Length:<strong> 3,523

**Warning(s):** Heavenly creatures don't like fallen angels

**Pairing/Characters:** John, Sherlock, Lucifer/Octavious shows up again, Lestrade, Henry Knight and Dr. Frankland, as well as mentions of Mycroft and most likely other people too

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock, or Sherlock Holmes, they belong to Sir Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. Nevertheless, I do own the story and the descriptions of people in the story, I don't claim however to own the names of the people I'm describing.  
><strong>AN:** Chapter 11 as promised, a little later then I meant to buuuut I got sidetracked with homework and actual work. But I'm not gonna make excuses or prattle on. So here is chapter 11 read, enjoy, drop a comment and let me know what you think. I'll see you guys lates, man!

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><p>After a quick and rather unusual conversation between the two Holmes brothers, they returned to Baskerville, with full access to the base and labs for twenty-four hours. They split up somewhere near the beginning, a complete accident really, that John really needs to stop letting happen. Though, it's really his fault for not calling or texting the detective. But he gets distracted by the smell of ozone, and the sound of tinkling bells, and the crackling of electricity against his skin as something shifts in the air. He wanders the labs waiting for the stragglers to leave for the evening, meanders across the floor, can't look too goal oriented, they are sure to review the cameras later. When he reaches the door, he ignores the sign letting himself in, from here he lets his senses drift out, touch the surroundings and feel out the anomalies.<p>

There is an odd glimmer in the air, an odd fragrance in his nose, and he feels dizzy when he sees the leaking gas. It's not right, his mind tells him, there is something wrong with it. He stumbles out of the cordoned off section as quickly as he can, trying to shake the fog from his head. Temporarily blinded by the overhead lights, and his ears ringing with pain didn't help the shaking that was settling into his bones. The door denied him exit and suddenly he was plunged into darkness. The moment the lights were gone he could smell it again, stronger now. Ozone as it breathes and it's hairs rubs together, bells against tile as its claws click click closer, bright red eyes in the dark watching his every move. For a moment it's just them, watching each other, the sound of growls coming from somewhere in the room, disembodied from the creature he stares at. He blinks and so does it.

Several more pairs of eyes are staring back at him now, and he knows what he is looking at, has heard the stories of the creature that is watching him so closely. It moves and so does he. It jumps away, gaining leverage before jumping back, flying through the air with the grace of a bird, and with power greater than even its impressive size gives illusion to. It nearly barrels him over but he had slid under it last second, using the fluidity of the movement to remove the tags before his feet completely find balance under him again. It spun to face him with all the agility of a cat. Its maw opened over pearly white teeth and the sound that emitted from it was the echo of heaven's bells, deafening and a force of nature. He flinches back from the sound, throwing his hands over his ears to protect against the reverberation but he can already feel blood seeping through his fingers. He snarls back at it, slicking the chain of his tags with his own blood as it ignites in Hellfire. He cracks the whip across the creature's nose and it howls in pain stepping back before pouncing at him once more in anger.

He can feel his phone trying to get his attention, but right now he has more important things to worry about. Its clawed paw nicks his elbow dripping blood to the floor, his skin burned for a moment with the chill of Holy power. Another swipe and he barely dodges it as his phone starts buzzing again. Crack of the whip, and Hellfire catches around one of the paws. Its cry of pain nearly shoves him off his feet, the Hellfire dissipating and he stumbles against iron bars, falling through the open cage door. It stands outside his metal death trap, shaking its head and licking at its injured foot. Ears standing straight, the beast looks around, as if alerted to some sound and it's gone as quickly as it had arrived. He slumps against the bars, pressing his forehead to the cool metal. The lights are back on and he can hear Sherlock's feet on the tile. He's talking a mile a minute, about altering the security tapes, demanding what John saw, having left the security room the moment John had pulled the tags.

"It was large, with red eyes-" is about as far as John gets before Sherlock is off, talking about drugs, and hallucinations, and seeing what you want to see. He doesn't get the chance to tell the detective that what he had seen tonight in this lab was _not_ a hound of any sort. It was a creature of Heaven, not Earth.

Everything is a blur. Henry is gone, Dr. Frankland is behind the hound hallucinations, and Lestrade is going to meet them in some haunted grotto with only a gun for protection, and Sherlock won't even hold for two seconds so that John can get him to back up from the situation. It's a hurricane of motion and action and he has been pulled into it and won't be getting out of it very easily.

Sherlock clutched tightly at Dr. Frankland's coat, having dragged the man from the hollow in the rock he had hidden himself. He was shaking him and revealing his whole plan when they heard the footsteps. When they hear the sound of Church Bells chiming loudly. Their eyes all slide up to the top of the grotto. The good Doctor looked about ready to be sick, while Sherlock's hands clutched tighter at the white coat. The "Hound" stalked the unstable dirt above them, glaring down upon the weak human's in which it was ready to prey upon. There was a low petrified sob as Henry stumbled away to collapse on his knees behind Lestrade, shuttering and trying to make himself as small as possible. The DI looked about ready to do the same. The Hound snarled, the sound of silver bells tinkling from its throat.

It shook out its fur, sitting back on large impossibly sized haunches as the mist cleared enough to reveal what they were really looking at. Three sets of large red eyes blinked at them from the dark. Sherlock shifted his body, leaning closer to John, to what he knew was safety.

"Dr. Watson… I believe this is your area of expertise, what can you tell me about this… beast?" It wasn't really a good time for this… but it wasn't really a good time to have four average, vulnerable humans hanging around when an angelic beast of myth had the high ground. It blinked down at them, shaking out its large lion's head. Bull horns from the ox head curved from behind around the lion's ears, a snort came from somewhere, as if unpleased that it could not see their adversary. Large red eagle eyes glared from behind the lion's right ear, piercing into John's head, trying to kill him with a glare. Golden curls fell from behind the left ear something soft whispering from under the cover of human hair.

"A Cherub…" John cleared his throat, moving towards the slope that would bring him closer to the creature. It bolted into an upright position, its front legs that of a lion, it's back of an ox, while its three pairs of angelic wings stretched to full span, as if sending a warning. He heard a quizzical noise from Sherlock's direction. "A Guardian of the Throne of God, I've heard of them, never seen one before tonight… Sherlock, don't do anything stupid while I'm gone." He could practically feel the detective's need to roll his eyes as John slowly made his way up the dirt incline. The Cherub snarled at him, the sound almost animalistic. If it wasn't for the sound of wind chimes, he'd be a bit scared. "Is that supposed to frighten me?" He vaguely questions it, though he is sure it won't respond. Instead it steps away from the grotto, out of the line of sight, leading John away into the thick of trees.

He pulled the tags over his head, following its moves as it followed his. Running his fingers over the chain his fingertips ignited the metal in flames. It shook its lion's head, and a sigh came from the curtain of human hair. It turned so the blonde haired angel's face could survey him properly. Red eyes roamed him, curious and searching.

"You are John?" It whispered. He nodded, his bones rattling together at the sound of the angel's voice. Its features were neither man nor woman, its hair fell around its face like a veil hiding where the head melded with lion and ox and eagle. "My apologies, Child. But you have become a nuisance for our Heavenly Father. Please, do not think ill of me." _At least it was polite_, he thought to himself as the lion head turned to face him once more, its lips curling into a menacing grin. It was faster, now that it was somewhere open, somewhere it could move without constraint. John had a hard time keeping up with its pace, but any slip up was an opening for attack. He barely dodged the first swipe, claws having aimed for his chest. They wove together, one moving in and back out with each chance for offense, only to pull back in favor of defense. For a moment, they were evenly matched, equals in this quarrel.

But the moment passed, and though it seemed impossible, with every failed hit the Cherub seemed to gain speed, moving faster and faster, until John was tripping over his own feet, stumbling away, just to keep the attacks from landing where they aimed. His body was having a harder time healing the wounds inflicted by its Holy power, scratches across his arms and legs and abdomen. It was a little late before he realized that this was probably the idea, run his body down, diverting energy to healing wounds. He snapped his wrist forward, aiming for the feet, the legs, the eyes, anything to slow it down, even if for just a moment. A dull ache had settled in a spot between his shoulder blades where Michael's hand had once slid through and gripped his heart. The icy pain of Holy Power was starting to accumulate in his system, turning his Hellfire sluggish and dimming the flames. A large claw just nicked his chest and a blaze of pain blossomed from his torso, a large gouge opening from shoulder to opposite hip. He hissed, wrapping his whip around the paw that had raised for a follow through attack, tugging and twisting pulling the beast close enough to shoot wings out like daggers. Clawed tips sliced through the creature's leg, tearing at flesh and pouring its blood to the forest floor in rivers. He drew his wings back sharply in pain, as liquid light poured from its wounds burning stronger than any normal Holy power. He jumped back, releasing his hold and the dance continued. Dodging and weaving blows, lashing out his own, desperate to keep the creature from hitting him again.

Minutes passed of frustration as attack after attack failed to hit, was blocked or diverted from a killing blow. John was keeping even footing again, the beast's front legs wounded by his last attack. Until a tree root caught his heel giving the beast its chance to land another blow to his chest sending him back several yards. The ground was gone from under his feet, and the sensation of his stomach dropping to his feet told him he was falling. He hadn't realized they had moved so close to the grotto until it was too late. The thought hit him just as the ground connected with his back. His wings creaked, fractures running up along the bones. He bit his tongue hard enough to taste the acrid black that was his blood just to keep from shouting in pain. He scrambled to his feet only to be shoved back down as the Cherub pounced, pushing him back to the grotto floor.

He saw his only chance and took it. Spitting a mouthful of Fallen blood into the beast's eyes causing it to loosen the pressure it was placing on his shoulders. While it reeled, blind momentarily his wings curved latching onto the shoulders and under belly of the Heavenly creature, digging claws in deep. The animalistic scream it made had no sound of bells to it, no beauty. He dug deeper, liquid light pouring down the bones of his wings, eating away at the structure. With a powerful shove his wings ignited in Hellfire throwing shadows around the grotto as the creature caught fire around where his wings dug. It screamed, thrashing in his hold, tearing at what it could reach of his torso in hopes of injuring him enough to release his hold. Claws dug into his skin, shredding the human shell he wore, pouring light into his wounds and causing a scream of pain to rip through him. He dug the wings in further, refusing to let go of the creature, now that he had it in his clutches, he couldn't let it free. He snatched the creature's paws on their downward swing, holding them in his grasp, fire whip slithering around its front legs to hold them in place. Feeling the flame build in his veins burning through the icy poison of Holy power and burst forth from his palms, up his arms across his whole body, encasing himself in a protective layer of fire burning the light before it could touch his skin, cleaning his wings of the venomous substance.

The creature howled in agony, and there was a moment where the human head turned to him, gazed down at him in pure fury and fear, prepared to beg from the look on its face. But before he could change his mind, he pulled a hand back from where it was restraining the beast's front paws and thrust forward. His own claws easily tore through the soft flesh of the Cherub's abdomen, already torn and battered from their battle, his wings still holding firm. He ignored the burning in his fingers, in his arm as he dug his hand around the Angel's chest. Its insides were easy enough to pass through, pure liquid light, it was sifting to find what he was looking for, through the pain of Holy power burning into his skin, that was difficult. He sobbed in pain, when his fingers came in contact with what he sought in the creature's chest. Despite feeling his skin peeling back, and muscle disintegrate at the touch, John wrapped his bony fingers around the Holy star that was used for the creature's heart.

"You cannot…" Wind chimes whispered in his ear, and light was dripping from the Angel's human lips. He closed his eyes, to keep from looking at its face as he ripped the star from the Cherub's chest and crushed it between his fingers like glass. The body screeched and ignited instantly into Hellfire, as John shoved one last time with his wings, toppling it to its side, its legs limp with its demise.

Relief crossed his mind, Sherlock was safe, the Cherub was dead, and he felt strong and powerful. He'd just killed a Guardian of God's Throne.

The feeling didn't last long, panic set in as the light that had acted as the creature's blood began oozing, turning to stone, locking his wings in place within the Cherub's chest. He tugged, sending further cracks up his bone wings. With his last spark of energy he sent another burst of Hellfire, cracking the stone and releasing him from its temporary hold. He stumbled back, collapsing to his knees in relief and exhaustion clutching his slowly healing hand to his chest. Hiding the bone under his jacket to avoid the elements. A hand brushed his wings, and he didn't need to turn to know it was Sherlock. John closed his eyes, leaning minutely into the touch. His bones ached. He wanted to sleep for a couple decades. But he couldn't. Not yet. They both looked up as Dr. Frankland began running up the slope out of the grotto. He probably would have made it with Sherlock's lack of care, John's lack of energy, and Lestrade's lack of proper thought, if it weren't for the fact that someone was waiting at the top for them. A hand touched the man's chest, sending the old doctor reeling before he tumbled back down the slope. Octavious made his way down the mud and dirt as carefully as was possible, more out of wish to keep his shoes from getting dirty then because it was steep.

"Oh, dearest John." He practically crooned as he made it to the bottom, placing one mud covered foot on Dr. Frankland's chest to keep him from attempting escape. "That was absolutely _arousing_, the masterful way you took on a Cherub. I don't think I've ever seen a Fallen win against such a _spectacular_ creature. Had me on the edge of my seat the whole show. Darling… you really are a marvel." Frankland struggled madly clawing at Octavious' well-tailored pant leg to little success before he began shaking in fright. Lestrade had lowered his gun to his side at some point, staring almost blankly at the three strange men in front of him. From the lack of whimpers, Henry had passed out some point between the Cherub appearing and Octavious speaking, his mind unable to compartmentalize the visions before him.

"Greg…" John started, voice hoarse. He paused, clearing his throat while the detective startled from his stupor to look at the winged man before him. "I know this is a lot to take in, but…" he nods his head to the doctor trapped under Lucifer's shoe. "I'm sure you brought your handcuffs."

"I'm hallucinating, right?" Lestrade said, matter of fact, as he holstered his gun and pulled the metal cuffs from his back pocket. His fingers shook as he did so, betraying his attempt to hide his anxiety over the situation.

"Sorry, love, definitely not." Octavious smiled lecherously as the detective knelt down and nudged the foot planted on Frankland's chest away so he could roll him over to be restrained. John tuned them out, as Octavious began overtly flirting with the Yarder, while still managing to fill the man in on all the facts that were relevant. Lestrade only seemed to be half listening, as if he weren't ready for the facts. Or maybe he just didn't care. About this time, Sherlock reached forward snatching the dog tags from John's motionless fingers preparing to drop them around his neck when a menacing hiss erupted from beside his left ear and a hand clutched his wrist almost too tightly, keeping him from continuing.

"Might want to wait." Octavious' gentle coaxing brought Sherlock's arm over his chest and the detective found himself several steps back from his previous position at John's side. The white haired man didn't seem to have a problem kneeling in the mud and filth as his hands ghosted over the bone of John's wings. Fingers traced fissures in the structure, dug nails into little furrows, and smoothed over loose chips. "Poor things…" He whispered to no one in particular, pressing his lips to a crumbling joint. The bones trembled of their own free will under his expert fingers, as if comforted by his ministrations.

John closed his eyes against the sensation. Exhausted and drained, but the touch of Octavious' burning fingers running along his wings, fussing over the damage, and stitching them back together. By the time the man was done John was ready to slide down into the mud and sleep. A gentle brush of fingers on his wrist removed his bony hand from its hiding place. Octavious nearly crooned as he brushed the knuckles of John's hand against his own cheek.

"So brave, John, I asked so much of you and you always give so much in return. How heaven could turn you out is beyond me…" His thumbs knead into the stripped palm, muscle and skin blooming up from where his thumbs press. The devilish man in a suit presses John's skinless fingertips to soft lips and slowly, one by one, his fingers regenerate flesh and skin. When Octavious presses John's knuckles to his cheek once more skin presses against skin and the devil smiles coyly at him. "There… all better." The tags dropped over his head, and he barely noticed the tingling feeling as his back sealed his wings up once more. With some help, his feet were under him again, and Sherlock was gripping John's arm in reassurance as much as for stability. Octavious had already moved away, was helping a newly awakened Henry to his feet. He could hear the boy stuttering nervously, Octavious flirting and soothing him at once, and Lestrade trying to hurry them both along. John smiled and let his forehead rest against Sherlock's collarbone.

"Let's go." He sighed as an arm came to rest around his shoulders.

"Agreed." Was whispered into his hair, and he could almost hear a smile.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Hope you guys liked this chapter, can't wait, now that the Hounds Arc is out of the way I can move onto the next arc which so far, for some reason, is my favorite. Alright, toodles for now, and thanks again for being so patient with me!_


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